


And So The Sunrise Will Blind Us

by Fallingtowardsoblivion



Category: Merlin (BBC), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Arson, Baker Merlin, CEO Uther, Cancer, Corruption, Diners, Drug Dealing, Dystopia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Gaius owns a diner, Gambling, Gangster Arthur, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Illegal Fights, Illegal Magic, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Merlin Uses Coffee As A Weapon, Minor Character Death, Murder, Near Future, Organized Crime, Other, Pain, Slow Build, Temporary Character Death, This shit will rip yo damn heart out, Torture, Waiter Merlin, lots of pain, mentions of drug abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallingtowardsoblivion/pseuds/Fallingtowardsoblivion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The city of Albion is in shambles, on the brink of destruction. Criminal organizations rule from the shadows, pulling strings even as the laws of the land become less hospitable for sorcerers. Forced into hiding or else treated as second class citizens, magic users have begun to turn, out of desperation, to the same criminal organizations that push to outlaw them for employment.</p><p>The most powerful of the organizations is Camelot. Ruled by Uther Pendragon, Camelot is an empire in its own right, with Arthur as its heir. Groomed all his life for the position, there is nothing that can get in the way of Arthur continuing his father’s legacy and creating the perfect Albion…</p><p>Well, nothing except for a certain bumbling idiot of a waiter.</p><p>But nothing is as it seems, and even as the beginnings of something blooms between Merlin and Arthur, there is a storm on the horizon. One that neither may be able to weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening from this humble slumber

**Author's Note:**

> Artist's Note: This was my first time doing anything like an ACBB, and I was quite nervous at first. However, in the end this turned into an amazing experience which I have been very glad to have been a part of! I learned a lot art wise giving myself the challenge of not just letting the pen wander but actually sticking to the vision prompted to me by the author, something I'm really happy with. I would also like to thank my writer who is not only very skilled themselves, but also encouraging and supporting, making it easy to stay motivated. 
> 
> Author's Note: I am so happy to finally be putting this up! This fic was honestly a year in the making, hours of hard work and rewrites, and generally quite the ordeal. But I'm so unbelievably happy to finally be able to start posting it, and I cannot even begin to say how much I love the artwork! I would like to thank narlth for the amazing betaing, and of course Amalie for unbelievable artwork! Anyway, without further ado, here we go!

 

_Unknown date, 2018_

 

_Merlin woke screaming._

_At least, he would’ve if he could get a proper lungful of air._

_Instead, unable to move and wholly disoriented by the darkness surrounding him, Merlin thrashed about. His hands caught on the sheet above him, elbows knocking at the cold metal beneath him and on all sides. Merlin struggled, breath coming in ragged gasps as he ripped the sheet down and tried to sit up. His head only made it about twenty centimetres though before it whacked into something cold and hard and -_

_And that same cold metal._

_Merlin licked his lips, feeling wholly disoriented, laying back down where he was. Cold fingers, numbed almost beyond use, felt around the ceiling - something metal and resilient - then felt down the sides, to the space above his horizontal head. There was no opening. He was…_

_He was in a box._

_Merlin swallowed down his panic, terror taking a front seat in his mind._

_His hands became more frantic as he tried to first shove above him, then at the walls to his side. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he was confined in little more than a shelf, and the more Merlin pushed at the metal surfaces around him the sturdier they felt._

_“Fuck!” Merlin yelped, kicking out his feet in his thrashing._

_A sharp bang resounded as his foot hit the wall at the end of the space, and something gave._

_Merlin gasped, squinting his eyes to the square of light at his feet. Numbly, he wiggled forward, not really caring that his body felt stiff and disused, his mouth cottony and retained an antiseptic flavour._

_The cold air that pervaded his box was no better when he shimmied out of the space. Merlin was suddenly very self conscious of the fact that he was bare, save the sheer sheet which he had bunched to the side of his container in his haste._

_Merlin gasped as his body slid free, dropping a good metre before his feet hit the floor._

_Swallowing tightly and taking a much-needed lungful of chilled air, the warlock looked around the room, taking in the metal table, sterile, white walls, the medical equipment and then finally -_

_The wall of doors._

_Merlin’s mouth dropped open as he stood up, his legs wobbly from disuse, and turned so he could fully face them. They weren’t doors exactly - rather cabinets with numbers on their fronts, all uniform, all stacked from the floor to head-height. All cold metal and that strong, sterile odour._

_They were morgue drawers. In a morgue cold chamber._

_Merlin suddenly leaned over, missing the chance to get to the sink by a mile, and heaved up his already empty stomach._

 

 

August 15th, 2016

 

It was a cool autumn evening, the sun having just dipped below the horizon, taking any lingering pretenses of summer with it. The streets of Albion were quickly losing their sustenance; commuters and residents alike filing out of the grittier parts of town, leaving the usually bustling avenues abnormally deserted in lieu of curfew.

Merlin doubted that it would last.

Every couple of years, in an attempt to crack down on the growing hold that organised crime had on the city, a curfew would get put in place.

They usually didn’t last more than a month, maybe two at best.

Too many people worked at night, and the real criminals were never so stupid as to let themselves get caught out late. Bribes, or maybe kickbacks, would assure their movements go undetected by Albion PD. In the end, there would be a series of mysterious circumstances that would lead to a quick, quiet and unanimous repeal of the curfew. The streets would flood again with a booming nightlife, and everything would go back to the way it was, barely a chink having been taken out of the armor of the Criminal Underground.

In the meantime, though, there was a curfew. A curfew that Merlin just so happened to be about to _break_.

The warlock sighed, realizing he was going to have to walk faster.

Shivering against an unforgiving burst of chilled wind, Merlin pulled his worn jacket closer, picking up his pace _. Five more streets, an alley, a left, then home_.

Rounding a corner, he could finally breathe a sigh of relief at the familiar sight of his complex.

An ominous gust of wind cut through the dusk air, giving Merlin one last _push_ forward.

Merlin lived in an old, decrepit flat with his mum – the place in all reality little better than a sinkhole estate. But it was what the warlock could afford when juggling two jobs on top of attempting to pay his way through Hunith’s medical bills, and his mum always made an effort to make the place homey.

It wasn’t much, but at the end of the day it was enough.

 

_“Look mum,” Merlin said, dropping the wad of money on the kitchen table. “You and I both know that somebody needs to make money, and you’re too sick to!”_

_“Merlin, you cannot be serious! This is your education, your_ future _-“_

 _“No, you’re not_ listening _! My future can wait. It’s not the same as before, granted… not since they ripped apart the NHS…” Merlin seemed to cast around for a thread to hold onto, something, anything, losing all momentum as he did so. When he spoke next, it was soft._

_“We have to cover the costs somehow, mum. I can go to university later, after you’re better…”_

_Hunith’s harsh look softened at this; softened at the unspoken knowledge that there may never be any getting better. Merlin’s face grew taut as he recognised his mother’s unspoken retort._

_It was hard, but Merlin swallowed past the lump in his throat._

_“We can’t go on like this.” Merlin gestured towards the stack of red-marked envelopes on the kitchen counter._

_It was Hunith’s turn to swallow the lump threatening to cut off her breath. With watery eyes, she finally sighed, bringing a hand up to scrub almost unconsciously at her face._

_Then, silently, she nodded._

_Merlin relaxed, the stress and tension and coil of other emotions in his gut finally unwinding, his body finally relaxing._

_A moment, and then two, and then Merlin was looking up again. He gave a small, sad smile to the woman who raised him._

_The silence between the pair grew, then. Hunith sucked in a breath, looking anywhere but Merlin._

_Merlin watched her, steadily, taking in the war of emotions crossing her face. Finally, it resolved into a placid expression, and Hunith sucked in a breath. Curiosity – or maybe fear – had gotten the better of her._

_“What did you sell?” She asked, eyes still fixed resolutely on the floor. Not daring to see the answer revealed in Merlin’s expression._

_“My textbooks, calculator, extra notebooks…” Merlin hesitated. “…And laptop.”_

_Hunith’s head shot up. “Merlin…”_

_“No, mum.” Merlin shook his head, coming closer to bring her worrying hands – which were wringing aimlessly at each other – down and into an embrace. “It’s fine.”_

_“Merlin…” Hunith returned the embrace, holding her watery eyes in check – but just barely._

_“It was a piece of shite, anyway.”_

_Hunith gave a sob of a laugh. Merlin could tell from the fact that she didn’t even reprimand him for his language that she was far gone by way of distraction._

_He swallowed, nestling into the warm familiarity of his mother’s embrace, and tried to keep the shake from his voice._

_“Don’t worry, mum. It will be alright.”_

 

Merlin had gotten lucky, having found employment at one of the few places in lower Albion that wasn’t a strip club or dive bar.

A bit worn on the outside, with peeling paint and scratched, cherry red plastic booths that was anything but abnormal for such a gritty part of town, Dragonhouse Diner was a twenty four hour diner that managed to contain a steady stream of customers. The golden doors had long ago faded, the bar stools were uncomfortable and _red_ , and the linoleum floors were nearly irreparable with wear in some places. Yet the food was good and the prices were reasonable, and furthermore, the owner – Gaius – made it very well known that the outside world was not allowed to seep into the cozy, homey realm that was _Dragonhouse_.

Merlin supposed that the reason the diner was even _open_ was because of this unspoken protection. It was rare for there to be neutral turf in Albion, what with the way that that part of the city had become the breeding ground and battlefield for all forms of organised crime. Most shops were ‘protected’ in one way or another by one group or another: be it an organisation, a gang, or possibly magic-related groups (no matter how illegal said practice was).

Yet Gaius had managed to somehow eek his establishment past all forms of bias, becoming a safe haven for the criminal and innocent alike; never closing his doors or an understand ear to a patron – regardless of how homeless, how rugged, how early or how late they were. During his past year of employment alone, Merlin had seen everything from runaway children sleeping in the backroom – to which he had carefully left plates of scrambled eggs and sausage for, to gang members – bloody and worn – stumbling in through the double doors and straight towards Gaius’ expert (if not rusty) medical training.

It was this homey atmosphere that kept paying the bills, and which made Merlin’s second job something to look _forward_ to.

Sure, Merlin had done his fair share of stitches, given out quite a few much needed coffees and rolls, and listened to more than enough situations in need of decent, level advice – which Merlin always managed to deliver, causing a smile to crack across the patron’s face in the meanwhile. But that never detracted from the enjoyment Merlin managed to get out of working at Dragonhouse.

Merlin was drawn out of his reveries as he reached Dragonhouse’s car park (if the lot of grass and various blacktop patches outside of the worn building could really be called such). There were a couple of old, rundown bangers in the lot – though the number of people inside would undoubtedly be larger, considering walking was the most common form of transportation in this part of Albion.

Merlin’s pace picked up on its own accord as the faint golden glow coming from the wrap-around windows grew brighter. The seasons were changing. Soon, Merlin would have to pick up a new winter coat (his last one having given its dying breath after an unfortunate run-in with a vengeful washer at the laundromat).

_Of course, he would have to find the money for one first._

The thought settled uneasily on Merlin as he gripped the door handle, pulling it open with an unconscious finesse.

Comforting warmth and a wave of air heavy with the scents of coffee and cinnamon immediately spilled out, carrying with it the low murmur of the nightly crowd. Gaius was behind the bar. He always was by time Merlin was on shift - the old man usually let Kara, the daytime waitress, off half an hour before curfew.

Immediately relaxing as he crossed the diner’s threshold, Merlin hung his jacket up on a surprisingly full line of pegs – smiling towards a few of his regulars. Steam, more than anything else, was what pushed the warlock to slip into the backroom, tie an apron ‘round his waist and then grab a pad and pen on his way back out.

It had been a long day at his other job, on top of having to make an emergency run for his mum’s meds.

Coming out to the bar, Merlin was greeted by a somewhat worn looking Gaius, who only spared him a tight smile and nod before retiring for a couple hours.

Gaius’ home (if you could call it such) was in the latter half of the squat building that was Dragonhouse Diner. A couple rooms, kitchen and bath area connected nearly directly to the diner. If the old man wasn’t on the floor, then he could undoubtedly be found deeper within the building.

Merlin nodded back, not questioning the retired physician's mood. If the grapevine proved correct, then there had been a fight – involving sorcerers – between two rival ‘organisations’ not three blocks over.

No doubt, Gaius had had to deal with some of the runoff.

Merlin sighed, quickly brushed his souring mood away, and instead moved to take the orders of a pair of customers, a broad grin stretching across his face.

_Sorcerers. Again._

That was the third magically backed street fight to happen this week.

Merlin had begun to notice how more and more sorcerers, registered or otherwise, were getting involved with the criminal underworld of Albion. To some extent, it could be expected to find the odd magic user in the mix of gangsters and ruffians that seemed to ooze from the woodworks of every walk of life. Yet the sheer number of sorcerers becoming _involved_ –

Merlin frowned as he made his rounds around the room, picking up checks and doling out coffee.

It was understandable, if the price was right. Parliament, useless as it was, was strengthening their anti-sorcery laws all the time. It was becoming harder and harder to be a Registered and keep up a standard of living – let alone a _decent_ one.

Lots of sorcerers were turning to more dubious means to keep food on the table and locks on the door. But usually the well meaning ones, the men and women turned desperate because the buses wouldn’t service them and nobody was hiring, only skirted at the edges of the criminal underworld. Petty theft, small time robberies, false tax returns.

Nothing like this. Nothing like what had been happening recently.

Merlin could only wonder exactly how much the organisations were paying them.

Whatever it was, the whole situation – including the new bill getting put up for vote in a month’s time – all was making Merlin the wrong type of twitchy.

Unconsciously, nearly out of habit, Merlin glanced around, taking in his surroundings. The familiar checkered floor, the glaringly red booths and chairs, the ruddy bar where most of the burly, construction worker type patrons were seated.

Nobody particularly dangerous around, except for a pair of hooded blokes tucked into a booth in the corner, probably fancying themselves thugs by the way they had openly sized Merlin up when he’d made his rounds.

But thankfully, (and Merlin’s shoulders slumped at this realisation, losing tension he hadn’t realised was there), nobody was _suspicious_.

Nobody was witch-hunting.

 

_Merlin could still remember the first time he encountered one – a witchfinder.  Later, years later, he would not only be able to put a name to the practice, but a name to the face._

_At the time, though, he didn’t understand what was happening. At the time, things had been different. Not good - never good when it came to magic user rights… but at least then they had been able to vote, able to drive, able to own shops and businesses._

 

_He and his mum had been perusing the different stores at the shopping centre for back to school ‘essentials’. Hunith had been in a giving mood, freer with money back then thanks to a secure income from her husband which left their pockets lined comfortably. Because of this, Merlin had been indulged in every junior schooler’s dream: a trip to the sweet shop._

_It was as they were leaving the shop, over-sized lollipop just barely fitting in Merlin’s mouth, when the shouting began._

_A couple metres over, two men in Albion PD uniforms tackled a man to the ground. Before anyone, let alone Merlin, could react, there was a burst of energy that resonated through the air. It was like the clap of a giant but more physical; it shook the bystanders to their bones, resonating for a moment longer than normal sound should._

_It was immediately cut short by the tell-tale buzz of tasers, and an unwholesome wail from the man on the floor. Subject secured, the pair of officers descended on him._

_An older man, dressed in civilian clothing and sporting well trimmed, graying stubble, stepped up to address the crowd._

_“Let this be a lesson to them!” he had shouted – his voice strong and assured. “A lesson that there is no way to hide, not here, not now, not_ ever _–“_

_Hunith had grabbed Merlin’s arm in a painful vice then, as the man’s words began to resonate through the suddenly hushed corridor, and hauled him from where his feet had been glued by shock._

_Hauled him away from the witchfinder._

 

“Merlin!”

Merlin jerked up, not realizing that he had dozed. He only vaguely remembered going into the kitchen to make some more pies.

He hadn’t even realised the exhaustion that had been creeping through his marrow all evening. Yet obviously he must’ve been bone tired, as his nap had been a decent amount of time… if the new pot of coffee, stack of checks and dirty plates all precariously balanced within Gaius’ grasps was anything to go by.

“Merlin, my boy, could you help me with this?” Gaius was looking at Merlin, ignoring the fact that he was, of current, paying Merlin to _sleep_.

“Mm yeah, Gaius, sorry about that,” Merlin said, moving to rub his face, only to find a check very inconveniently stuck to one cheek.

He pulled it off and ran a hand through unruly, overgrown hair.

“No bother, no bother,” Gaius said. The older man moved with surprising agility to drop the dirty dishes and empty coffeepot in the small washbin.

Merlin, taking care to stretch sore joints, followed closely behind.

“Do you need me to take over the front of the house?” Merlin asked, the sleep easily draining from his body. He was used to catching naps in downtime.

Gaius stiffened, hesitantly, as he eased half eaten meals into the industrial sink.

“Or... do you need me to help… with _someone_?” Merlin finished, his stomach sinking at the implied weight of his words.

He really did hate the sight of blood.

Gaius turned around, nodding, a sad smile on his face. “You know I wouldn’t be asking you to if I was able to…” he trailed off, the smile dissolving.

“Of course,” Merlin said with false brevity. “Of course, Gaius, I understand… Shall I get the kit?”

“Yes, that would be very good. Thank you.”

Merlin’s smile was genuine this time, if not a little disheartened. “No problem, Gaius.”

The older man hesitated, then, nodding as if in answer to a personal inquiry, left.

Merlin blew out a heavy sigh as he watched the kitchen door swing shut. It wasn’t as if Gaius wasn’t able to treat whatever poor bloke was currently bleeding out in the backroom. Physically, at least.

Mentally, though…

The drawn reluctance on the old man’s face made Merlin wonder exactly how bad the standoff from earlier today was. The ex-physician never got in sour, if not discouraged moods, unless the damage that trickled into his unspoken safe-haven was immense. He, though a medical man, nevertheless also held Merlin’s dislike for blood and gore.

This dislike rarely ever reared its head in the face of an injured body, though.

It made Merlin wonder what, exactly, had happened at the standoff. More specifically (because everyone knew they were the ones who would get treated most harshly by law and criminal alike) what had happened to the _sorcerers_.

The warlock gulped, trying to shake the chill that was creeping steadily up his spine as he moved to grab Dragonhouse’s medical kit.

Something told him he didn’t want to know.

 

* * *

 

Arthur withheld a sigh and grimace of distaste as he looked upon the man before him.

It had been a long day, what with Uther having put him in charge of taking care of the runoff from the earlier blowout with Cenred’s people. Arthur hadn’t slept since the night before last, what with being put in charge of attempting (and failing, a small, ungrateful voice added) to defuse the rising tensions.

Failing _spectacularly_ , to be specific.

Arthur gave up on keeping his face placid, and let the grimace contort his features. The man before him flinched.

Arthur had been put in charge of negotiations with Cenred’s people over what to do about the growing ecstasy problem.

Though Cenred King had control over a large majority of lower Albion, and Uther over upper, they both still dealt the same drugs. The growing problem was that the drug industry was getting hit, hit _hard_ , because of fake ecstasy. Shit from superlabs importing from the Americas that didn’t know what they were doing, what they were _making_.

The new stuff was at best not reacting at all and at worst killing the users – seizures wracking bodies on the dancefloors of clubs and in the streets alike. The whole damn thing was getting out of hand, and it was affecting Camelot’s bottom line.

It was also affecting _King’s_ , since the druggies didn’t give two shits about the source they were getting their fix from, and therefore were currently staying away from all forms of MDMA because of the blasted bunked shite.

Getting rid of the fake supply lines, it should’ve been easy. If his sources were anything to go by, (and they were), then Arthur knew for a fact that Cenred was _hurting_ from the fake MDMA.

It should’ve been an easy joint hit – Arthur had already known who the main shipper was, where the supply line was breaking down…

But the negotiations had fallen apart.

Arthur sucked in a breath, shoving his fingers into his eyes. He had a headache. Being forced to spend all night hunting down the rat in the Pendragon drug vein hadn’t helped his mood, either.

It hadn’t been easy, finding the guy.

Honestly, if someone had asked Arthur a few days ago if he thought Cenred would dare to insert a bunker into the hoard of dealers on Uther’s payroll, Arthur would’ve snorted. Cenred was never one for such an easily traced attack. Nor for such an _assertive_ attack. The man hadn’t come into power through his spine and straightforward mannerisms, after all. He would never be so ballsy as to plant a fake in _Camelot_.

But, evidently, he had.

It had taken some time, and a lot of effort, to find the rat. Oh, but they had found him.

Arthur spared a moment to give an intimidating stare towards _said_ rat, who was currently kneeling on the muddy, concrete floor.

He was an older man for a dealer. Thirty something with grey flecking his day’s worth of scruff. Hair disarrayed, collared tee shirt partially unbuttoned and torn. Fresh blood and bruises speckling his face. He looked pathetic. Or maybe crazy.

Arthur glanced away, his lips stretching into a tight line.

“Oi boss, whaddya want us to do with him?”

Arthur looked up, making eye contact with Lamorak.

The larger man had a firm grip on the rat, and was, of current, waiting expectantly for Arthur. Further behind Lamorak was Gwaine.

Outside the warehouse, probably killing time plowing through a pack of cigs, Percival and Lance waited with the car. Both were the patient type, usually put on mindless guard duties when Arthur had the team out on runs. But that patience wasn’t needed today.

After all, Uther had wanted them to make quick work of this whole fuck-up, and Arthur couldn't help but agree.

After all, his headache was getting worse.  

For a second – just a second, barely more than the blink of an eye – guilt crept into the outer edges of Arthur’s consciousness. The man before him had talked willingly. He had probably been forced into his position, the tell-tale Registration band around his wrist gleaming unnaturally in the dim lights. He probably had a family or something.

But then the moment passed. Arthur shook his head, ridding himself of any empathy. After all, this man was a sorcerer. He brought the gleaming metal band on himself, dabbling with magic. He had chosen, in the end, to work for Cenred.

And it just so happened that the man had made the wrong choice.

“Dispose of him.”

Lamorak nodded, yanking the rat up. Gwaine stepped forward, his face void of all his normal cheer, and moved to grab his other arm.

Arthur turned around, giving little notice to the rubble and debris that made walking across the abandoned warehouse floor just this side of a _hazard_ . He kicked aside a bottle and some other rubbish. He was tired, and his head was _killing_ him.

The man squeaked, undoubtedly terrified as he was dragged towards the plastic already neatly laid out at the centre of the warehouse.

Arthur took sympathy – halfway turning as he said:

“Make it quick.”

Gwaine made a noise of consent, fishing for his gun. The undignified squeak quickly turned into pleading – desperate and panicked.

Arthur didn’t stay for the rest.

It had gotten colder outside, the night sky eerily clear for the time of year. Arthur sighed, heading towards where Lance and Percival were loitering.

Arthur motioned to Percival, who had been leaning on the hood of their nondescript SUV. He nodded, giving Lance a quick glance – watching, undoubtedly, as the other knight stubbed out his cigarette – before sliding into the driver’s seat. Faintly, over the sound of the engine roaring to life, Arthur could hear the small _pop_ of a silencer.

He slid into the backseat.

“Where to now, boss?”

Arthur didn’t bother making eye contact with Lance as he slid into shotgun, instead pulling out his phone.

“My flat.”

Percy nodded, wordlessly putting the vehicle into gear. Neither man commented on Arthur’s sharp attitude.

They both understood.

Despite his heritage, Arthur had never been one to condone violence when more peaceful means could be used to come to the same conclusion. Most of Arthur’s workers – his knights, as Gwaine had jokingly dubbed them one drunken night – knew that the less savory aspects of Uther’s empire upset Arthur.

Hell, most of the knights wouldn’t even be _working_ for Uther if it wasn’t for Arthur. The only reason they tolerated Uther’s less-than-sanctioned business practices was _because_ of Arthur. Friends, companions, the closest thing to family that Arthur would ever have – those were the knights. Picked up from all different walks of life, brought together by one man, they were some of the closest people Arthur had ever seen.

And at the end of the day, the knights - they didn’t even _work_ for Uther, not really… they worked for _Arthur_.

Arthur sighed, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Arthur didn’t want it to be this way. He didn’t want the few men he could trust in the world getting in so deep.

Hell, Arthur had tried many times to make them leave, get out, find decent jobs. Just because Arthur had to deal with the family business didn’t mean that his men should, too. Especially not after what had happened with Bedivere.

And that was another thing.

Bedivere was finally out of jail.

He had been sentenced fourteen month, for drug possession with intent to sell. Never mind that the only reason he had any drugs on him was because at the last minute, he’d ripped the duffle bag from _Arthur’s_ hands.

Percy had shoved Arthur into a nondescript car and burned rubber just as the police drove up to the deal site. It had been a setup, and nearly successful.

Arthur swallowed the lump forming at the back of his throat. His knights were some of the most loyal, respectable men that Arthur had ever had the pleasure to meet, let alone earn the (undue, in Arthur’s opinion) respect of.

He shouldn’t be dragging them down with him.

Before Arthur’s thoughts could get any bleaker, though, his phone began to buzz. Evidently his night was not finished. Though of course, it never really was. There was always work to do when you were the right hand man and heir to Albion’s largest criminal empire.

So, with a sigh, Arthur swiped right across the dimmed screen, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Pendragon.”

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

August 16, 2016

 

Dawn was just beginning to breach the horizon by the time Merlin got off work. Gaius had gingerly touched the warlock's arm while he’d been bent over the sink, scrubbing furiously at his hands. Merlin only faintly registered the touch, too busy trying to wash stray blood from cold hands. Gaius murmured something about getting paid for overtime, before silently shuffling away from the waiter.

Merlin was too brain dead to particularly care. 

By the time the warlock had stumbled through the worn, littered streets of lower Albion and back to him and his mum's flat - a ruddy thing, more of a hole in the wall than an actual home - the sun had fully risen above the horizon.

With a huff of a sigh, Merlin shoved open the door, careful to not make a sound as he shouldered it back into place behind him.

Merlin’s threadbare jacket was efficiently peeled off and hung up. Shoes were toed off and tucked under a small side table, while keys were left on their appropriate peg.

Careful feet padded across outdated beige carpet.

Exhausted, Merlin heaved another weighty sigh as he closed his bedroom door, pulled out his thin wad of tips and shoved them between the pages of an old, used hardcover.

Fingers carded through messy hair, then Merlin looked at his twin sized bed with a frankly loving gaze and – peeling off worn jeans – promptly flopped onto it.

He still had a couple hours before having to show up at Le Chateau – his second job. And considering that mum was still sound asleep, her breakfast could wait.

The realization that Hunith had managed to sleep even with the new medication gave Merlin peace of mind – something that was few and far between for him nowadays. So, feeling settled and sedated, Merlin got comfortable, huddling into the old blankets, and let sleep finally overcome him.

After all, it was only dawn.

 

* * *

 

 

That same dawn found one Arthur Pendragon dragging himself out of bed. He groped around, feeling blindly for his trilling phone. Clearing the sleep from his throat, Arthur faked morning brevity and alertness as his father’s assistant spoke to him from the other end of the line.

Hanging up and dreading the series of meetings to come, Arthur felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. It had been a long night. But it was going to be an even longer day.

 

A couple cups of coffee later, that same Arthur Pendragon found himself, dressed to the nines in a tasteful suit and tie, walking through the sliding glass doors of the skyscraper that held Pendragon Industries. A few more steps, a small set of marble stairs, and a couple buttons pressed, and Arthur was on his way up to the top floor – Uther Pendragon’s private abode.

Arthur kept a carefully schooled face as Uther’s assistant ushered him through a pair of heavy oak doors. He faintly winced at the strong, spiced smell that wafted out of the room – it was something from Arthur’s childhood that had long ago become associated with an unexplainable nausea and negativity.

Holding down the unwarranted reaction, Arthur took a step inside.

Uther always had had a tendency towards the grandiose and archaic, and his private office reflected it. Deep, dark wood panels lined the walls, while thick Persian rugs – a year’s salary apiece – were strategically placed across wooden floors. A heavy desk and matching bookshelf only added to the appearance that the room was that of royalty, rather than the ultra rich; though it was the plush leather chair, complete with a kingly occupant, which completed the image.

“Sir,” Arthur said, hands clasped in front of him, head tilted in a half bow.

“Arthur, please – sit.” Uther looked up from the stack of papers that were orderly spewed across the mahogany desktop. Arthur ignored the headache that was beginning to form in his frontal lobe – no doubt related to lack of sleep – and instead sat in one of the two chairs in front of Uther’s desk.

“Now, I hear that you found the…” Uther’s eyes flicked up over the rim of reading glasses, hand paused midair. “… _rat_.”

Arthur nodded, not daring to speak out of turn. Despite Uther’s general lack of interest in Arthur’s raising – save for to groom him as Camelot’s next overseer – he had nevertheless instilled a very stern set of rules into Arthur. One so such just so happening to be that talking out of turn – while in a professional setting, no less – was near-well to striking the man.

Uther continued, satisfied with the muted communication.

“Yes. Well, I want a full report of the situation on my desk by tonight. Furthermore, I need you to fix the _mess_ –“ The word dripped from Uther’s tongue, poisoned, or maybe just bitter as he spat it out. “- you made with Kane. His people are becoming a nuisance.”

Uther frowned a bit, not noticing how Arthur’s careful mask had momentarily contorted with distaste. “If you need to, rid us of them. Their trade has become obsolete.”

And with that, Uther looked back to his papers.

Arthur knew very well that he was being dismissed.

“Yes, sir. Shall I have Leon deliver the report?”

Uther didn’t bother to look up. “That will be fine.”

And with that, Arthur stood up and left the office.

As he made his way out of the building and to his chauffeured car, Arthur began to think.

Kane was one of those men who were all brute and no tact. He took his job seriously only because his job involved a lot of violence and a lot of intimidation. The man himself only tolerated being under a boss because his boss – Cenred – let him have nearly free reign when he worked.

More than the fair share of the bodies that washed up on the banks of the Avalon River were Kane and his gang’s work.

In Arthur’s opinion, the man’s insatiable bloodlust and recklessness wasn’t worth employing him. Obviously, though, Cenred’s opinion was starkly differing, for Kane was fairly important to his ‘company’.

And because Kane was important to Cenred’s work, he was also inevitably someone that Arthur and his knights had to regularly deal with.

And that, well that was where things were becoming concerning.

Arthur frowned, his brow pinched, the world outside his car sliding by without a second thought.  

The fact that Uther had so flippantly approved a hit on the man, though, left Arthur flustered. Evidently, the rising tensions between King and Camelot were getting to the point that his father was beginning to risk all out war.  Cenred would never let the execution of a man like Kane go unanswered.

Arthur frowned as the full weight of Uther’s words began to settle on his chest.

Sure, Camelot had turf wars. Scuffles and skirmishes were just part of the business. If another, smaller organization got in their way, then it was only right to use brute force to reassert the hierarchy of Albion.

But this – this wasn’t just a turf war. Cenred had crossed a line, and now Uther was willing to hit back – but with much more force than Arthur thought advisable. Because no matter how slimy Kane was, he was still one of Cenred’s men.

And Cenred would never let the execution of a man as important as Kane go unanswered.

Arthur’s frown deepened, the pot of coffee he’d downed earlier sitting uneasily at the pit of his stomach. Uther was planning something – he had to be. This wasn’t the first time in the last few months that he had done something out of character: rash and almost crazed. Hell, he was pushing useless laws through Parliament even now, lobbying through force and blackmail for magic to be dealt with more harshly.

Not that he bothered to share his plan with his only heir. Which just went to show how little Uther trusted any of his men – even Arthur – with what was happening. Which in turn meant it was something big….

And bloody hell, that was unsettling.

 

* * *

 

 

A few hours later and half a city away, Merlin was jolted back to reality with the shrill screeching of a rather beat to hell alarm clock. A flick of the wrist and flash of gold, and silence resonated throughout his room – starkly loud in its sudden onset. He stretched, groaning, then scrounging around the ground, pulled on a relatively clean pair of sweatpants and moved to start his morning routine.

That was how Hunith found him when she emerged into the bustling kitchen of their cramped flat. Merlin was mindlessly multitasking – flipping American pancakes (a recipe he had perfected ever since getting his job at Gaius’ place) on the stove, and brushing his teeth.

With a gracious nod, Hunith sat at the kitchen table and accepted the steaming cup of Earl Grey that Merlin shoved into her hands. She sat for a moment, content with just warming her palms on the outside of the cup and slowly awakening. A few moments passed like this, with Merlin humming a bit as he cooked, the mid-morning sunlight slowly creeping through the blinds.  

Hunith turned her attention to the growing – always growing – hoard of pill packs beside her cheery, flowery placemat, while Merlin turned off the appliances with a grunt of satisfaction. Before she could even fully register it, a steaming breakfast was in front of her. Hunith looked up, sending Merlin her best attempt at a smile. It seemed to work, because her son smiled back, his face cracking into a giant goofy grin, before he muttered something about grabbing a shower.

A moment later, and the distinct creaks and moans of the old pipes working to pump water to the shower could be heard reverberating throughout the flat. Hunith sighed, relaxing back into her seat and rubbing absentmindedly at the short tufts of hair under her bandana.

Merlin emerged just as Hunith was struggling to get up and grab a second cuppa.

“Mum, no, sit. Let me get it,” Merlin said soothingly as he gently lead Hunith back to her seat, drops of moisture still trailing from his plastered hair.

“Merlin… you’ve done enough already,” Hunith protested, reluctantly taking a seat, resenting being so helpless.

Merlin gave her a lopsided grin. “It’s nothing, mum, really.” Hunith huffed, leaning back in her chair.

Soon enough, there was  another cup of tea pressed into her hands.

“So how was work?” Hunith said, finally awake enough to fill the silence of their flat.

“Mmm… Alright,” Merlin said, despite the way his posture stiffened at the mention of his night job.

“Did it have to do with the… customers?” Hunith asked, motherly hackles immediately raised. “Nobody hurt you, did they?”

Merlin turned to her from where he was buttering his own slice of toast, leaning against the countertop. “No, mum, no of course not. Nobody hurt me.” He smiled again, this time a more tired, worn expression. “No...” He muttered, turning back to his plate. “It was just a – busy – night.”

Sometimes Merlin wouldn’t talk about what happened at work – at Dragonhouse. And Hunith would usually let it slide, understanding her son needed to hold his peace, have his privacy. And if the way his back was ramrod straight and his shoulders stiff was anything to go by, then Hunith knew he was in no mood to chat at this moment. So she didn’t push it.

Merlin would come around in his own time.

Instead, Hunith brought the cup back up to her lips and watched her son get ready for work.

And when the time came for him to rush out the flat door, tie askew and shoes half on, Hunith merely waved him off, calling for him to stay safe. Maybe at one point in time she would’ve gotten up, grabbed him into a hug, adjusted that tie. But no longer was her body able to move fast enough to keep up with Merlin – and knowing her son, he was already probably late, with the last thing him needing is his mother slowing him down in order to say a morning goodbye.

The chemo was just too much at the moment.

With a contemplative sigh, Hunith looked down at her now-cooled tea. If only the chips hadn’t fallen as they had.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Just as Dragonhouse was a run down, homey establishment in lower Albion, Le Chateau was a posh restaurant in the bustling bowels of upper Albion.

The chic restaurant, which held prime real estate on the first floor of a flashy skyscraper, catered to the ultra rich of Albion.

Albion was by no means the only city on the island, nor was Le Chateau the only pricy restaurant therein. Nevertheless, the eatery still managed to bring a crowd of businessmen, money old and new, tourists looking to blow a week’s paycheck on one cup of gourmet food and connoisseurs from far and wide.  Regardless of the hour, it would be busy.

Nothing Merlin couldn’t handle, if it meant he was still getting tipped. _Oh_ and he got tipped. Unlike at Gaius’ diner, where Merlin was paid a decent wage and tipped only when a customer was satisfied (which Merlin had to admit was a decent amount of the time), Le Chateau had the more popular method of automatically tacking on an extra 10% with every meal.

And Merlin couldn’t complain. A week of tips was enough to pay a month’s rent.

But the commute from Merlin’s flat was laughably long – consisting of taking the tube and two buses, then walking a few blocks. The cost alone cut into Merlin’s pitifully tight budget (something that was getting even tighter as Hunith started her newest round of chemo).The treatment at the actual restaurant was even worse, with the waiters invisible until a patron needed to blow off some steam.

Thankfully, Albion’s upper crust considered reprimandment to contain a good bit of yelling and snobbery.  No fists, no thrown glasses, no broke plates. Nothing like what had happened at Dragonhouse a couple times over Merlin’s employment – situations that escalated until Gaius somehow managed to smoothly diffused them. Even more relieving was the fact that Le Chateau wasn’t mutual territory; it was firmly on Camelot’s turf and therefore there was an unbelievably happy lack of bleeding patrons flooding in in need of stitches or set bones at all hours of the day.

But then again… the restaurant was part of _Camelot’s_ turf. Something which Merlin couldn’t help but shiver at. After all, it was common knowledge that Uther Pendragon - head of Camelot - was leading the crusade against magic users.

It would be stupid - absurd, really - for a magic user to dare be employed in Camelot’s territory… Yet here Merlin was.

The reason Merlin had ever even _considered_ applying for a job at Le Chateau in the first place was because of Gwen. She was one of the few people from Merlin’s previous life, and had only managed to stay within his realm of friends over the years due to her persistence, stubbornness, and innate, motherly nature.

This was also the reason that Merlin was currently employed at his day job.

Merlin looked up at the towering skyscraper that housed the famous restaurant in question – sun glittering from the glass peaks of the building as though it indeed was the seat of a throne. Weaving his way through the rest of the early noon foot traffic that surrounded the building’s sidewalk – which amounted to a lot of suits and smart dresses – Merlin quickly snuck into the back entrance of Le Chateau.

The building itself was a satellite firm of Pendragon’s company – a blatant, immaculate front that had a finger in every pie and was well known for being just that: a front.

The warlock snorted at the irony, shaking his head as he made his way towards the apron rack at the back of the kitchen. Everybody _knew_ ; nobody could find proof, that was the thing. There had been one too many payoffs, favors and threats with the ‘higher ups’, the politicians, the police, for there to even be the threat of the law raising a finger against the growing criminals. Instead, everyone devoted their attention to the perceived threat of _sorcerers_.

Sorcerers, who now (apparently) were becoming so desperate that they’d align themselves with the same criminals and gangsters who used them as a scapegoat.

With one final huff of concerned breath, and an expert pull that knotted his apron ties, Merlin purged his morbid contemplations. The last thing he needed right now was to wallow in the negative.

So instead, he put on a smile and grabbed one of the mandatory serving trays – silver-plated and gilded – and prepared for the lunch rush.

“Merlin!”

Gwen made her way towards the man in question just as he was moving into the heart of the kitchen. Though it was only early noon, the kitchen had nevertheless already managed to wind itself up to full swing: smoke shot up from oversized pans, while various devices beeped and sizzled, and servers, chefs, busboys and all levels in between scarcely managed to keep their arms full of whatever they were laden with while weaving through the kitchen crowd. Gwen was closer now, much closer; so close that Merlin could see the stray strands of hair surrounding her face: a halo to match her angelic personality.

She smiled at Merlin, who in turn gave her a brilliant grin. “Morning, Gwen. What’s going on?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe how busy it’s been!” Gwen exclaimed, carefully stacking five plates on one arm. How she did that, Merlin would never know. “There is a huge table out there right now that I was hoping you’d be able to help me with?”

“Of course, what do you want me to grab?” Merlin said, immediately slipping into the bland, wait staff mindset that he so often escaped to nowadays when he was working.

“Oh, if you could just take those...” Gwen gestured vaguely towards a stack of glorified scrambled eggs.

Merlin nodded, then moved to pick the plates up – careful to stack them in that overzealous, over laden way they’d drilled into him his first week on the job. Then, with a little flourish, he pushed through the double doors of the kitchen and out onto the dining floor.

It was after the lunch rush when Merlin was finally able to smile a genuine smile, turning towards Gwen as they began to change tablecloths. The restaurant was –thankfully – empty at two in the afternoon.

“So how is Elyan?” Merlin said, looking sideways as he moved to neatly fold up the dirtied white fabric. Gwen was doing the same one table over.

At the question, though, her face contorted with concern.

“Elyan is… To be honest, Merlin, I wouldn’t really know,” she said, shoving a stubborn lock of hair out of her face as she turned to look at her friend.

“Oh? Is that so? Has he skipped town again?” Both waiters knew of the flighty nature of Gwen’s brother. It had caused a lot of trouble for Gwen’s parents – when they were still alive. Now though, Gwen had very nearly come to terms with her brother’s innate inability to settle down. Nearly.

“No, actually,” Gwen said, flicking out a fresh cloth with experienced wrists. “He’s been in town for quite a bit of time. More so than since secondary school.”

Merlin frowned, pulling out his own new cloth. “Why is that bad?” The cloth snapped as it was whipped across the table. “Wouldn’t that be good?”

“I mean, yeah, I’m glad he’s finally around,” Gwen paused. Then, “I just worry about what’s _keeping_ him here.” Her hands nervously folded out the creases and wrinkles of the starched fabric.

Oh.

“You don’t think he’s gotten himself into something, do you?” Merlin said with a half hearted laugh, trying to lighten the continuously growing weight of their conversation. “Honestly, you worry too much to be his sister. Best better start addressing you as _mum_.”

Gwen relaxed a bit at the forced joking. “Yeah, yeah, I know. He’s just been out late, y’know? Hanging out at The Armory. He’s got a couple friends who have been taking him down there.” She paused in her flattening. Merlin tried not to notice how she was worrying her lower lip in a tell-tale way that could only mean there was more than just that. There had to be. Merlin, for the sake of his friend, tried to ignore his own sinking gut and instead turn back to his own tablecloth, expertly flattening out the sheet. He had assumed the conversation over.

Then, “But you’re right, Merlin, you’re absolutely right.” Gwen straightened up, smiling towards the other waiter as she reached for fresh silverware. “He’s probably just finally gotten it out of his system.”

Merlin forced a smile. “Or maybe he’s finally found a proper lady.”

Gwen laughed out loud at this. “Oh yes, like that’ll ever happen! I take pity on the woman who tries to make a proper man out of _that_.”

Merlin joined in, not really feeling the humor of the situation. From what Gwen had said, it really did sound as though Elyan was digging himself a grave. The Armory – a twisted caricature of a professional gym – was renowned for its connection to Camelot.

For all they knew, the young man was well on his way to _deep_ _shite_.

That thought left Merlin more than a bit concerned as he moved on to the next table, Gwen relaxed and oblivious next to him, obviously set at ease from their conversation.

Merlin, on the other hand, couldn’t help the sinking feeling growing within him.

 

* * *

 

 

As promised, Arthur sent Leon – along with a formal report of the events that had transpired over the last few days – to Uther by sunset. 

The elder Pendragon’s only curt response was a snapped reminder. An important shipment was to arrive tonight. Arthur had gritted his teeth against the formal contempt his father held for him; the constant lack of compassion and innate disappointment the elder man seemed to hold for his own flesh and blood never failing to surface in their (albeit short) meetings. Regardless of any and all of his attempts at pleasing the older Pendragon, it seemed as though Arthur would never own up to his standards.

This realisation, surprisingly enough, didn’t stop him from nevertheless trying. So instead of lashing out, yelling until his lungs were raw and his father _understood_ , he’d bitten the inside of cheek, left the office, and called his men.

This shipment was important, at least to Uther. It would mark the beginning of a new alignment with a separate sect of dealers from parts of the United States and Canada.

Sunset found Arthur being chauffeured to a desolate stretch of concrete nestled between rotting warehouses and a decaying pier on the banks of the Avalon. The area was reasonably desolate, the last sight of humanity a homeless man cocooned in newspapers some four blocks past. As he got out of the sleek, absolutely out of place Benz – tonight’s car of choice – Arthur took in an (albeit toxic) lungful of night time air. The lights from the less slummy portions of the city reflected across the gray sky, creating an unsettling illusion of a horizon ablaze. Shrugging off the unsettling sense of foreboding, Arthur instead physically shrugged – adjusting his smart formal jacket in the process. As always, he was dressed to the nines in designer brands – which – combined with a constant immaculate formal wear, made the young Pendragon out to be intimidating. Terrifying, even, if some of the rumours were to hold any truth.

 

Straightening his tie, Arthur waited until Galahad gave a polite sweep of his arm to begin crossing the brittle pavement. The last weeds of the season crunched under Armani Oxfords as Arthur approached a set of cars that were tactfully parked off to the side, out of sight of the main road, near the sluggish backwaters of the Avalon.

A deep breath was all it took for all emotion to drain from the young Pendragon’s face. Another one stretched through his chest, building his form as Arthur’s appearance became at once regal, imposing and composed.

A glance in his peripheral confirmed that his ‘body guards’ – Galahad and K – had done something similar. Their sheer bulk and composure alone would be enough to send lesser smugglers running.

But the men Arthur was dealing with – a slimy bunch, all from the Sidhe Cartel– left no room for surprise. Their faces, a bit paunchier as a whole, (but that was probably due to their height in the food chain more than anything else), were held carefully in check.

Arthur caught himself right before a grimace marred his features. Though he didn’t really like the world of drugs to begin with (the whole business made the young Pendragon feel rather icky), he particularly didn’t like dealing with the people from the Americas. They tended to be more brutal, and less likely to stick to their word.

Of course, they were Pendragon’s (and therefore Albion’s) largest supplier of cocaine, crack and cannabis. So though their methods were at best crude and at worst downright disgusting, Arthur still had to interact with them – because his father wanted to have his fingers in every pie.

Still, as Arthur approached the parked sedans, he couldn’t help but wish he was dealing with somebody _nicer_ … from the _Netherlands_ , perhaps. Those blokes were always much more companionable, taking their LSD and hallucinogen trading much less seriously.

Galahad came to a stop beside Arthur. K stayed a bit behind, shadowing the pair with practiced ease. Lance and Caradoc were waiting further back, by the car. Ready to run to the rescue, or jumpstart a quick getaway.

No doubt Gwaine and Erec were perched on opposing rooftops, sniper rifles in hand, watching the whole deal transpire with eagle eyes and hair triggers.

Arthur nonchalantly adjusted his cuffs, not bothering to acknowledge the smugglers before him.

They shifted – noticeably _shifted_ \- obviously annoyed by the subtle power play.

“Oi, we ain’t got all night. This going to go down or what?” The shortest of the group said, too anxious to stay silent any longer. He accentuated his words with grandiose gestures with an AK. Typical. Just downright stereotypical.

Arthur slowly looked up from his cuffs, a bored, deadly look on his face. One he had schooled from a very young age. It was a face that expressed exactly how much less important you were than a Pendragon, and exactly how much of a waste of time and breath you were.

Arthur had learned it from his father.

There were three men in front of him, two more in the driver seats of the two nondescript rental sedans. The one closest to Arthur was looking expectantly to the Pendragon, tapping a cheap trainer on the crumbling ground. Another man – tall, wry – was leaning against the hood of the car.

Arthur immediately could tell he was the man in charge.

The third man, wearing a cheap leather coat and too much metal, lurked.

“Well? What, you deaf or something, fog breather?”

Arthur raised his eyebrows contemplatively at this, while the wry man’s hand quickly shot out, gripping Loud Mouth’s arm.

Arthur gave an amused grin at that... It was all teeth, fully predatory.

He was going to chew these men up and spit their guts out.

“I must say, I was not expecting such hostility from the Sidhe.” Arthur’s eyes flickered to the slightly widened eyes of their leader. He was scared. Good. “But, Camelot has little problem with finding our – ah – goods with someone else.”

His comment had the wanted effect as the leader stepped forward, pushing the squat mouth breather behind him with more force than necessary. “Please, Mr. Pendragon… My colleague  has a bit of a mouth on him.” A sickly grin stretched slippery skin. “The Sidhe by no means holds the same – ah – views, as _him_.” He made a dangerous gesture to the newly-cowed man behind him.

Arthur raised his eyebrows in a deceiving nonchalant manner, somewhat humored. “Oh, really?”

The taller man nodded his head vehemently, not realising the sarcastic underlay of Arthur’s tone.

“Well, then I suggest that your _colleague_ keeps his tongue in check, else someone takes the liberty of cutting it out,” Arthur said coolly, in a calm manner that scared even himself. He blamed his father for this developed façade, this perfect, innate ability to strike fear.

It had never come easily to Arthur, evoking fear. For many years, when he was younger, much younger, and hadn’t seen any of the putrid underbelly of society, Arthur had fought his father, and had fought the coldness, manipulation and control.

Somewhere along the line, though, things changed.

As his carefully chilled eyes watched the smugglers shift, moving uncomfortably under the gaze of a man who was so obviously above their level, Arthur reflected on how it’d become so easy to be like this. To terrorise. Part of him wanted to blame Uther, his cold shoulder and heartless demeanor having over the years rubbed off on his reluctant son. But Arthur knew he would be lying – he’d fought the growing chill up until the day they took Morgana away.

After she was gone, something in the Pendragon heir had changed. He would never say he idolised his father, even though at the time he hadn’t even been in his teens. Rather, he searched for validation. Something Morgana, for the longest time, had given him. Yet, after the truth came out, that she was sick, broken, disturbed, one of _them_ – Arthur hadn’t known what to do with himself. His best friend, his _sister_ in all forms save blood, was suddenly nothing she had been and wretched from his life.

Dragging himself back to the present, Arthur resisted the urge to rub his tired eyes. Really, there was a reason why he never reflected on anything from his past, let alone involving _Morgana_ , without a fully stocked bar within arm’s reach.

With a withheld sigh, Arthur addressed the surprisingly cowed group of Sidhe in front of him.

“Well, now, let’s get on with this, shall we?” And with a final false predatory smile and gesture towards the ever-lurking K, Arthur effectively sealed the deal.

As it turned out, becoming ‘full partners’ (as Uther liked to refer to it) with the Sidhe was probably the best thing Arthur had ever done for Camelot. Somehow, he had managed to sleaze-talk his way into an exclusive trading agreement with the American drug smugglers – effectively cutting off Cenred, and any other dealers (such as the Mercian gangs throughout Ireland). Overnight, Arthur tripled Camelot’s narcotics profits. Now, he alone had control over the street prices of crack, cocaine and cannabis (and Arthur was well on his way towards monopolising the hallucinogen market – he had a meeting with the Netherlanders later that week).

And yet, the victory was hollow, almost as though it wasn’t there at all. Life moved as it normally did, through the days filled with odd jobs that his father ‘trusted with no one less’, training with his knights, and valid business ventures.

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

Early morning, August 23, 2016 

 

The Armory had been, for all intent and purpose, a gym. At least, that was the original purpose of the boxish grey building, which sat in the middle of one of Albion’s more industrial districts, until its owner – a seedy man with a pinched face – got into some trouble gambling. As it turned, out, Arthur just so happened to walk into the somewhat bloody (if not one-sided) discussion between said owner and Uther, and, had on sight rather conveniently remembered that he and his men needed somewhere to train.

From that point forward, The Armory was, for all intent and purpose, ground zero for Arthur’s knights. Though there were still regular customers, the knights of Camelot had a whole floor to themselves.

 Arthur really wasn’t opposed to the setup.

 After all, The Armory had suspiciously state-of-the-art training gear, as well as a small, soundproof shooting range and various weapons training. Though of course, these aspects of the otherwise dull building were never seen by the general populous.

“Oi, Princess!”

Arthur snorted, watching as Gwaine – sporting a ponytail and sweat-soaked tee – ran up.

“Really, Gwaine, when are you going to learn some respect for your superiors?” Arthur said, putting on his most snooty expressions.

Gwaine snorted, bringing a towel up to his brow.

“Mmm, probably when they start earning it.” A crooked grin crossed the devious knight’s face, making Arthur fight his own urge to smile back.

“Really, I should fire you right now.”

“Oi, why would you do that!” Gwaine said in mock offense. “You gotta have at least _one_ pretty face on this team!”

“He’s right, Arthur. The only reason we’ve been so successful lately is because of Gwaine’s _body_. Why, without him, I don’t think those Sidhes would’ve even considered your offer!”

Arthur did smile this time, giving a light chuckle as he turned to see none other than Erec approaching.

“Really, Erec, don’t encourage him.”

Erec ran a wayward hand through sweat-dampened, blond hair. “I’m not encouraging him; I’m just stating the truth.”

“ _Thank you_ , Erec. I’m glad _somebody_ around here sees how hard I work for this team. Really, would you believe that princess actually said I needed to put in more _effort_?! I know, right…” Gwaine by now had his arm around Erec, and was playfully dragging the smaller man across the room, towards the wrestling mat. Arthur snorted, rolling his eyes at his knights, and turned towards the changing rooms.

There were a couple of the others at The Armory besides for Gwaine and Erec, regardless of the fact that the clock had struck twelve nearly an hour ago. His men, like Arthur, had to adjust to constantly changing hours. Staying fit just so happened to be high priority, due to the rather ‘hands-on’ nature of their line of work. Because of this, regardless of how early or how late, the third and uppermost floor of The Armory (claimed in the name of Camelot) was almost always in use.

Arthur moved with intent and purpose across the large room, nodding to Garth as he passed where the man was currently turning a training dummy into pulp.

As Arthur threw on an old shirt and jogging shorts, he vaguely went through a list of all the things he had going on for work, and otherwise. Percival and Caradoc were currently picking up a new shipment of glocks, while it had been planned that K and Lamorak were to meet with some of Annis’ people to settle a turf feud. Furthermore, his father had been emphasising the growing tensions between Cenred’s people and Camelot, and Arthur was set for a meeting with the man the next day… or, well, later _today_ , if he wanted to be technical.

With a sigh and a shrug, Arthur moved across a bit of floor that was cushy, blue matting towards where the dull swords were.

Though swordsmanship was, in practicality, obsolete, Arthur nevertheless constantly found himself drifting back to the rack of heavy metal fakes whenever he felt particularly stressed.

Approaching the sword dummy – a strange contraption that looked more like a bare, padded caricature of a pine trunk, with poles sticking out left and right, than an actual dummy – Arthur swung his first block.

It wasn’t that he was particularly stressed, there just was a nagging feeling that had plagued the heir ever since the Sidhes.

Shaking his head silently, Arthur threw himself into training. Whatever it was that was bothering him, Arthur couldn’t let it get in the way of work.

After all, Camelot came before everything.

 

* * *

 

Arthur scarcely glanced at Uther’s secretary, who gave him a sharp nod, before walking into his father’s archaic office. As always, there was an overall aura of wealth and excess exuding from the woodwork, and Uther was seated behind his heavy desk. When he saw Arthur enter, the elder Pendragon smiled, leaning back, and took off his reading glasses. 

“Ah, Arthur, do come in,” Uther said with an uncharacteristically large smile. “Please, take a seat.”

 Arthur nodded his thanks, and smoothing out his tie, carefully eased himself into one of the plush chairs in front of the desk.

 “Father,” Arthur said, nodding a curt greeting.

 Uther grinned at Arthur – actually grinned – in a wholly unsettling manner. Arthur stilled, face a pleasant mask of platitude.

 “Arthur, you really do know how to make a man proud.”

 Arthur bristled – he couldn’t help it. Uther was never a man to give praise, let alone to his son. Not only was it not Uther’s ‘style’ when it came to his children (or, well, indeed child), but it went again everything within the man’s _essence_ to actually compliment.

 Carefully keeping that schooled smile, he merely inclined his head, and gave a small. “Thank you, sir.”

 Uther leaned his elbows, smile still on his face.“Arthur, let me cut to the chase.” The man took on a contemplative look at this. “You see, it has come to my attention that you are _very_ good at leading your men.”

 Arthur startled a bit. Uther had never before referred to the knights as _his_. His father, though, didn’t notice Arthur’s change in posture, and continued talking.

 “I feel as though it’s time for you to receive more responsibilities. Think of it as a promotion.” Uther was smiling again, and Arthur decided that the look really didn’t suit the man. “As you know, King has been steadily building the number of sorcerers he has under his thumb. In retaliation, Camelot has been forced to do the same.” Uther’s expression darkened a bit at this, and Arthur had to nearly do a double take. Sure Camelot had a few sorcerers that they’d either hired or forced the hand of, but what did that have to do with Arthur?

 “As you also know, their organisation and control has been shaky, at best. Recently, though Cenred’s men have been growing more powerful – and more dangerous. His sorcerers are turning up more often and causing more headaches.

 “We need to be more efficient on our own front, and we need better organisation. And quite frankly, Arthur, I think you are the perfect man for the job.”

 If Arthur had been drinking at the moment, he would’ve spit it out. Instead, he did a double take at his still faintly smiling father, then said, “Wait what?”

 Uther gave him a faint, contempt filled smile. “You heard me. We are severely lagging in our magical department. I need a man who is fit to lead, train and keep his men in line, and quite frankly you are the most qualified one I know of… Plus, I need to know that you will keep your discretion when it comes to dealing with such creatures. I know very few people who aren’t fooled by their vulgar tactics, but a man of my own flesh and blood undoubtedly is.”

 Arthur didn’t want to accept the job. He was content where he was, he liked his men, he _had_ to like his men if he were to train them, and quite frankly, Uther undoubtedly would disapprove of any positive relationships between Arthur and sorcerers.

 “Really, father, I – I don’t know what to say.”

 Uther grinned again, leaning back in his chair. “Say no more, my son. I will put you in contact with the current head of Camelot’s magic division, and supply you with a full list of our past, current and possibly future members. If you need anything else, just place a request with Cindy, otherwise I will assume you’ll prepare the division at your own discretion.”

 Arthur solemnly nodded, knowing that his father was ending the conversation. “Thank you, sir, for this opportunity,” he said, easily easing himself up from the too-plush seat cushion.

 “No, no, don’t thank me. Thank your years of hard work and perseverance. Just think – you may yet be worthy of taking over my empire,” Uther said, that stretching grin still on his face.

 Arthur swallowed thickly at this, turning with his own little false smile as he moved to leave the stuffy, ornate room.

 He felt like he was going to be sick.

 


	2. I'll cast about the lines.

_Unknown date, 2018_

 

_Merlin gasped, the foul scent of bile permeating the room, choking him even as he gasped for air. Finally, finally, Merlin was able to straighten up._

  _Not before he noticed the tag strung around his big toe. The only thing he was wearing._

  _“Fuck,” he choked out, bending down and wincing at a newfound stiffness in his back. He ripped the tag off, tossing it aside._

_He didn’t want to read it. He already had a sinking feeling that he knew what it would say._

_And that… that brought a new level of disturbing to Merlin’s current mental state. Because well - fuck. He didn’t know how he got here. He didn’t know what was happening. The only thing he knew was that he was ass naked in a morgue, bile stinging his chapped lips._

_Swallowing heavily, Merlin stepped towards the ground in front of the - his - morgue drawer. He bent down, grabbing the thin sheet and quickly wrapped it around his shivering body._

_He stepped back just as quickly, head spinning with adrenaline and fatigue._

_Then, not knowing what to do, not knowing where to go from here, Merlin turned around and made his way towards the door._

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

August 24, 2016

 

Arthur watched with disinterested eyes as Uther stood in front of the podium at the banquet, giving a speech informing the crowd of his full support for the new laws being enacted. The man gestured, giving charismatic smiles at just the right moment, face drawing in a serious scowl at the next.

Arthur tuned him out, applauding when everyone else did, looking on with interest and approval when appropriate. To his right hung a pretty young thing who was trying desperately to eat her salad with enough finesse that it would turn Arthur on (fat chance at that). To his left sat Leon, moonlighting as a bodyguard.

In front of them, Uther kept speaking, eventually introducing a few notable members of Parliament. They shook hands, wide, political grins on everyone’s respective faces. 

Everyone knew that Parliament didn’t run Albion – Uther Pendragon did. The problem with this common knowledge, though, was that there was never any evidence to back it up. Therefore, Uther always got away with his quite frankly open manipulation of the political realms of Albion with even less than a slap on the wrist. And even if any evidence of corruption _did_ surface, it would be conveniently incriminating of someone that Uther deemed to be in his way.

It had been this way for over two decades.

From a young age, Arthur was groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps. To someday become a king of the shadows, to rule an empire so vast and diverse that its king needed accountants and underlings and stacks upon stacks of charts just to keep it straight. To be cold, and calculated, and precise. To create and hone and wear a mask, a façade, of the perfect, immobile ruler until one day he would, hopefully, become this mask.

From a young age, Arthur was groomed to purge his emotions and replace them with tact.

From a young age, Arthur was also groomed to hate magic.

Uther was a man of little emotions, and even his closest of kin – Arthur – scarcely ever saw more than rage mar the older man’s face. Sometimes, when he was younger and more foolish, Arthur had wondered if maybe he was born of a robot, rather than a real father.

It would explain a lot.

Years later, Arthur would realise that Uther Pendragon _was_ a robot. He was a precise machine of a man, and when he set his sights on something, he became a dragon. Became the creature of his namesake. For Uther Pendragon wasn’t a human – Arthur had learned as much a long time ago. Uther Pendragon was a hollow shell of a man, filled with hatred and anger and sadness and envy.  

Arthur was terrified of becoming that man.

Uther would kill not for enjoyment, or sport, or necessity, but because he believed that the death would bring a better world, a better existence to all. It was this belief in the betterment of humanity that wrought havoc upon all of Albion after Arthur’s birth. It was this belief that brought Parliament to its knees, kept Albion Police Department at his beck and call.

Uther did not just rule for the sake of power; he ruled because he believed, in his zealous bloodlust, that such power was his cross to bear, and that someday it would fall to Arthur’s shoulders.

 

 

_Arthur was young. His nannies were only just beginning to transition into tutors._

_The mansion was boring, yet the young Pendragon had learned a long time ago to not unnecessarily wander the halls – it would only bring him a scolding from a nurse, maid, or worse – his father._

_Granted, Arthur never really saw the man. He was always ushered out of the rooms that Uther entered. Always sent off before the greying man would lay piercing eyes on his heir._

_But today it was raining outside, the window panes ringing with the soft pattering of raindrops. The mornings were still cold, though by midday Arthur knew the sun (if it dared come out) would heat the concrete and grasses surrounding the sprawling mansion enough that he could sneak out barefoot without discomfort._

_Too bad the sun wasn’t out, and it was only early morning, instead of midday._

_Arthur surveyed his room, seated in an overly plush chair, legs swinging in innocent boredom. He had already had his session with Madame Alviere, a staunch, paunchy woman from Eastern Europe who favoured her ruler too much for her own good. Now, Arthur had a good four hours to kill until he could even hazard going down into the kitchens and grabbing some food._

_This realisation was the final push that made Arthur set his face in a small look of determination and shove off the seat. It was decided: he would go wandering around the mansion grounds._

_Father was actually home today, if what Madame Alviere had said was anything to go by. Even so, Arthur highly doubted that he would run into the man. He had a way with avoiding his offspring at all costs. Arthur had heard one time, when he was supposed to be asleep, the maids murmuring to one another about Uther’s habits. Arthur looked like achingly like his mother, evidently; it made it hard for Uther to acknowledge him._

_This made Arthur frown. Pendragons didn’t feel sad, but… If Arthur were to be perfectly honest, it did make him a little bit sad. Most everyone else he knew, such as Henry, at least had parents who tolerated their presence. Why, Arthur had even read, in one of his previous tutor’s books, about a father who would do things with his son – besides for dinner. The formal dinners Uther made him accompany didn’t count as ‘doing things’._

_As he wandered through the deserted, haughty hallways of the eastern wing of Pendragon estate, Arthur wondered vaguely what playing catch with Uther would be like._

_Probably drab. Uther tended to be a drab man._

_Frowning at this, Arthur wandered down a couple set of stairs, his hand lifting above his head in order to grab the railing._

_It took a moment for the young Pendragon, previously lost in thought, to realise he was in the basement._

_He was never supposed to be in the basement._

_Just as Arthur began to panic, imagining Madame Alviere and her ruler (a vicious wooden thing that stung even more than a hand) finding him all the way down here, he heard voices. Voices in the basement, where no one was supposed to be._

_Swallowing down his fear, Arthur edged forward, towards a light at the end of the hallway. The voices were incoherent, yet Arthur definitely wasn’t imagining them. Peeking into the room, he saw the last thing he’d ever expect._

_Uther Pendragon._

  _His father, along with some of his advisors who Arthur was always forced to give stuffy greetings to, and a couple new bodyguards. Arthur only recognised one – Leon – and that was just because the teenager actually treated the young Pendragon as more than just an heir._

_At the center of the cold, cement room, there was a figure – crumpled and chained._

_Gulping as he realised exactly how much trouble he would be in for intruding, Arthur hastily tried to back out of the doorway. Only, he was spotted._

_“Hey! Who is that?!”_

_Uther’s head (along with everyone else’s) swiveled, and Arthur shrank as his father’s piercing gaze fixed onto his son. “Arthur?”_

_Arthur gulped again, remembering just in time to cover his fear. Pendragons never showed fear. “Er – Father. Sir,” he said, hesitantly, uncomfortable with the attention._

_Uther’s lips thinned. “Why are you down here?”It was a statement more than a question, and Arthur shrank at the icy edge his father’s tone had taken._

_Arthur failed at attempting to speak for a moment. “I – uh –“_

_Uther waved his attempts at an excuse away. “Whatever reason it is, I suspect your nannies will be taking responsibility for it. As is, you might as well stay. You’ll be learning this soon enough.” Looking past his son, towards the man – Leon, who had gone stiff with disbelief – near the door, Uther said, “Keep him there, will you?”_

_“Sir, you can’t possibly be sugge- I – let me escort him –“ Leon stopped himself, stuttering over his words. Trying again, he met Uther’s withering gaze, if only out of the corner of his eyes. “He is much too young to be seeing this…”_

_Any warmth left in the room was sucked out as Uther carefully spoke. “You dare question how I raise my son?”_

_Leon swallowed, glancing to where Arthur was situated, wide eyed but too schooled to voice questions, in the doorway. There was a moment of indecision: an unspeakable pause as time seemed to stop and Leon seemed to actually be contemplating his next words._

_Finally, the teenager bowed, averting his eyes to the chipped cement floor. “My apologies, sir. It is not my place to speak.” Gritting his teeth, the young man added, “If you would be so kind as to… forgive my errors.”_

_Uther snorted, but nodded. “Forgiven. If you speak like that again, though, I might have your tongue severed from your head.”_

_And with that, Uther turned back to the man – the sorcerer – in front of him._

_The elder Pendragon didn’t even bother giving his son a glance as he spoke._

_He didn’t need to – Arthur’s eyes were fixed, wide and not understanding, on the crumpled figure on the concrete floor. He was too busy to register the meaning of the liquid being spread over the figure, nor the distinct, stinging scent hanging in the air._

_Arthur didn’t understand – not until Uther spoke, dismissive and bored._

_“Burn him.”_

_Arthur didn’t understand – not until the shrieking started._

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

August 27, 2016

 

Fresh out of working at Le Chateau, Merlin had just enough time to pick up Hunith’s painkillers at the local pharmacy before taking her to the hospital. Her next round of chemo was starting soon.

The pharmacy was dull, quite liken to the pharmacist – Frank – who couldn’t create interesting conversation to save his life. Greeting the balding man by name and with a quick grin, Merlin handed over the regular prescription, paid for it and then leaned against the wall, loosening his tie. 

A small box of a TV droned on in the corner of the room, drawing the attention of Merlin, as well as quick glances from Frank as he went about filling a paper bag with the required medicine boxes.

_“…In light of recent events, Parliament has now passed a series of laws requiring all magic user bracelets to be fit out with tracking devices. The man leading this crusade, Uther Pendragon, states that it is quote ‘creating a safer world, where rogue sorcerers aren’t nearly as prominent, and magic-related crimes will be drastically decreased’ as well as ‘only the right thing to do’. Various parties have commented on this recent change of events, but the general census has all been the same: that magic users are facing further regulation, and that it is a long overdue change. In a banquet held in celebration of the bill’s success late last week, Pendragon gave and speech outlining the finer details of the proposed law...”_

Merlin felt his veins run cold. His muscles didn’t seem to want to respond, and the room full of vitamins and minerals and medications threatened to close in on him.

“Ealdor?”

Merlin’s concentration broke at hearing his last name. Frank was eyeing him through pinpoint spectacles. Swallowing any rising fears, Merlin shakily got up and grabbed his mum’s medication, muttering a quick thanks and goodbye. He shoved the small, expensive bag into his coat pocket, rushing out of the pharmacy.

The fall evening was cold; the air was crisp with promises of autumn pastries and pumpkin lattes. If Merlin didn’t know better, he would’ve said the actual _air_ of Albion was becoming heavy, scented with the season. Soon enough, Merlin would be changing the menu at Dragonhouse, something that Gaius gave him nearly free reign over, and in which Merlin, being the amateur baker as he was, took great pleasure in.

The pleasure at the thought of the upcoming season was quick to fade, though.

Absentmindedly fiddling with his tie, Merlin began to mull over the news.

_Tracking_ devices.

They were using _tracking_ _devices_.

It was getting worse by the day, and Merlin couldn’t help but shudder at the thought. He couldn’t remember when the cold iron bracelets were first made a requirement for all magic users.

He could remember, though, the first time he saw one.

 

_The first time Merlin ever saw a cold iron, it ended in the worst way possible._

  _It is common knowledge that cold iron creates discomfort in the wearer, if the wearer just so happens to have magic. The harsh metal cuts off the connection between nature’s magical current and the sorcerer’s secondary, magical nervous system, effectively rendering them harmless… and defenceless._

  _It is not common knowledge, however, that cold iron creates extreme pain in certain creatures of magic._

  _Merlin figured that out the hard way._

  _Though Hunith was full of stories of a infantile Merlin enchanting toys, destroying fine china, and generally making his mum age at a speed thrice that of a normal human, it had never occurred to Merlin that he was entirely different from other sorcerers until one fateful summer day._

  _Hunith, though prone to shying away from any open displays of sympathy for magic users (else she accidentally incriminate her only son), nevertheless found she couldn’t resist the possibility of employing a sorcerer._

  _Her name had been Alice, and she had been a genial old woman – as well as a superb nanny. On top of that, she was more than capable of dealing with Merlin’s more impulsive, destructive outbursts._

  _By the age of six, Merlin had enough control to go to school. Even so, Hunith didn’t risk leaving the young boy alone on the evenings she worked, and Balinor was away. Hence, Alice._

  _Merlin had been having a fit, nothing too outrageous. Nevertheless, after the young warlock had cried himself out on the floor (it had been over a dead fish, of all things), Alice had gone to pick him up and put him to bed._

  _From what Hunith could tell, later, after Alice had been led away and Merlin was left at the police station for safekeeping, Alice’s iron band had touched Merlin. Not that that was the story that the police was fed._

  _It was the ensuing screaming, and incriminating burn mark on the young boy’s arm that had lead to the police taking Alice away in chains._

  _Alice never did tell the truth about how Merlin sustained the mark on his skin, and Hunith never saw the nanny again._

  _She never did hire a second one._

 

Merlin shuddered at the memory, drawing his body further into the fleeting warmth of his coat. He would be arriving at his flat soon, having woven his way through upper Albion and its dazzling high rises down into the depths of the lower slums.

 A low sigh of release left Merlin as he toed off his shoes when he finally closed his door on the cold autumn day.

 “Mum, I’m home!”

 Silence greeted him, and, a bit worried, Merlin went to investigate.

Rounding the corner, a figure became evident in the family room. Panic automatically jumped to choke Merlin’s throat –  

 Hunith was asleep on the couch.

 Giving a half smile, Merlin felt the weight of stress beyond his years settle uncomfortably on his shoulders. All he really wanted to do was tug the blanket further up onto his mum’s body – maybe crawl onto the couch next to her and get some rest too.

 Merlin didn’t though. There were too many things to do, too many appointments and on top of that Merlin had work later.

 With a soft voice and feather light touch, Merlin woke Hunith.

 “C’mon, mum. It’s time for you to get your weekly chemo, yeah?”  
  


 

 Over the years, Merlin had become very familiar with the four white washed walls and scuffed, peeling floor of lower Albion’s sole hospital’s waiting room.

 He was familiar with it, and he hated it.

 The cheap 90’s print chairs never became comfortable. The magazines and children’s books never changed, regardless of month. The fish tank to the far wall was shut down half the time – empty of all fish and suspiciously grimy – while the other half it was crowded with children trying their hardest to smack through the glass and onto one of the sickly, exotic fish within. The droning lights never flickered, nor relented – intent on casting everyone and everything within the stuffy room in deathly pales and ghoulish shadows. If not for the constant stream of patients – regardless of the time, or curfew – Merlin would’ve suspected the place to be a morgue. Or maybe a sepulcher.

He had, too many times, feared it to be his mother’s final resting place.

Hunith was a sickly woman. Her internal organs had felt the weight of disease for nearly as long as Merlin could remember. They hadn’t gotten bad, though, until after Balinor’s abrupt death. The cause of her sudden turn for the downright deathly hadn’t been determined – though Merlin suspected stress to be a leading culprit. All too soon, though, deathly had turned into cancer.

Merlin’s stomach rolled a bit as memories pushed into his consciousness. It all had left Merlin very familiar with hospitals.

He hated hospitals.

Tonight, Hunith was having a routine round of chemotherapy. Merlin knew without asking that Gaius would’ve given the young warlock time off if he’d requested it – the night off, so that he could wait anxiously for his mother to reemerge into the world of the living…

Merlin needed the money, though, and had already ended his shift early at Le Chateau in order to take Hunith to the hospital himself, despite the alarming amount of zeros he had seen on his most recent medical bill.

So he wouldn’t be waiting. Hunith wouldn’t even be ready to discharge for another forty eight hours; this new brand of experimental therapy meant that Hunith would have to stay under observation for the next two days.

With that in mind, Merlin attempted to ease his guilt as he eased the glass door of the weighting room open – letting the cool night air hit him, purging the antiseptic stench that clung to his being as he walked away from a little slice of hell.

He couldn’t help but let the guilt of leaving his mother behind gnaw at his insides.

 

_It had been Christmas Eve when Hunith had collapsed on the ground, unconscious. Merlin had just started uni – having scraped together enough money working weekends at a local coffee shop – when it happened. Thankfully, he had still been commuting at the time, and was able to find his mother when he did. Later doctors would tell him that if Hunith hadn’t been brought in that night then she might’ve not survived to see the New Year._

_Christmas day Merlin spent in A &E. _

_It was the day after that Hunith was diagnosed with cancer._

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

Early August 28, 2016

 

It was past midnight.

Arthur lurked at the back of the Armory, watching as K and Galahad got on smashingly with what appeared to be the newest member to Camelot’s ‘army’: Lance’s soon to be brother-in-law.

Throwing back the rest of his water bottle, Arthur watched as the darker man began to spar with K. He was actually quite decent, taking a full minute of K’s brutal, Eastern Europe-style street fighting before dropping to the mat.

“He’s good.” Arthur didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to know it was Leon.

“Yeah. Do we want him, though? After all… he knows Lance.” The Pendragon did look over his shoulder this time, shooting a pointed glance at his second in command.

Leon’s gaze didn’t falter. “It’s good – it means he's got a solid recommendation. Nothing gets past Lance, after all. ‘Specially not a rat.” It was Leon’s turn to give a pointed glance.

Arthur ground his teeth, ignoring Leon’s blatant implication. “I don’t doubt Lance’s judgment.”

“..So?”

The man – Elyan, Arthur thought he remembered his name to be – was now wrestling Percy to the mat (a feat unto itself, considering Percival had at least three stones on the newbie).

“So, it’s not about _credibility_ .” Arthur turned to face Leon, flipping his used towel over his shoulder and pointedly ignoring how Elyan was winning against Percival. Instead, he lowered his voice. “Leon, Elyan is someone's family. Lance is going to be _someone’s_ family. Now I have never had the pleasure of meeting the lovely Guinevere, but I doubt that I would ever be able to face her if I let _both_ her soon to be fiancé _and_ brother get shot or worse. One in this line of business is _enough_.”

Leon was silent, appraising Arthur. No matter rank, Arthur always felt infantile again under such a stare.

 

 

_“Leon, where is Morgana?”_

_Leon gulped, eyes appraising the young Pendragon. He’d grown into a becoming young lad, soon to be a teenager. The fact that it had become Leon’s duty to protect said_ lad _didn’t even bother the bodyguard – there was something about Arthur that drew a person in, made them loyal to him even when he held no power and was nearly a decade younger._

_Leon would never be able to place how it had happened, but he had developed an undying loyalty to his young master._

_And because of this loyalty, he was now the one who would have to break the news to him. To this kid – for God’s sake! – dirty and rumpled and standing in the doorway after a game of footie. Arthur frowned a bit, misinterpreting Leon’s silence._

_“Leon..?”_

_Leon looked away, his throat clogging. No one should ever have to have this conversation. But then again, no one should have to send their daughter away, either._

_That didn’t mean it didn’t happen, though. Shit like this happened all the time._

_And this time, it just so happened to have dragged Arthur, and Leon, down into the mess._

_The bodyguard swallowed heavily, finally finding his voice. Even though Arthur was growing at an exponential pace, Leon still took a moment to lower himself on one knee, putting a comforting hand on the heir’s shoulder. He breathed in, then blew the lungful of air out._

_“Arthur… about Morgana… I think it would be better if you sat down for this…”_

 

 

Finally Leon broke his stare, and nodded, understanding. “Right, sir. I’ll show him to the door.” 

Arthur nodded back, clapping his second in command’s shoulder. “Good. Now, about those files from Uther – the ones on the sorcerers – do you happen to have them on you?”

“Yes, sir. I also have that information about Claudine…”

Arthur frowned.

“…The ketamine producer? Out of France?” Leon raised a brow, trailing off.

“Ah, yes… Her,” Arthur said, the thought of their most recent shipments totally having slipped his mind. Clearing his throat, Arthur stiffened his back. “Yes, I’ll take that too. Later, though. For now you’re dismissed.”

Leon nodded, moving off towards where Elyan and K were shaking hands like old friends.

Arthur felt something heavy and unpleasant settling in his gut.

Instead of acknowledging it, though, he chose to choke back another gulp of warm water and head towards the showers. Denial, after all, was the Pendragon way.

 

 

Arthur was on edge all evening; it wasn't hard for him to confess that the last thing he wanted to do that evening was consult with a sorcerer – albeit, one under Uther's control.

There was a reason Camelot won their most recent street fight. That reason's name was, simply put, Sigan. The man was a sorcerer, and powerful at that. From what Arthur had heard (which was really only what Uther wished to be known) Sigan was one of the most powerful sorcerers of this era. His prestige preceded him, and his skills in battle were, of yet, unmatched.

  
But more importantly, Sigan’s skills in battle were, of yet, unchallenged by any and all of _Cenred’s_ men. Any attempt from the opposing criminal to take down Sigan only ended in many, _many_ deaths – and a blast radius of about half a block. 

Arthur was meant to organise and control the sorcerers of Camelot – yet to do that, he first needed to set up a hierarchy. One with Sigan, the best of the best, at the head.

Arthur liked to think that, if not for Uther, he would never be consulting with a sorcerer. As it was, though, Arthur was a Pendragon – and more importantly, he was a Pendragon heir – and, as Uther always put it, Arthur needed to know his land in order to sow it.

So, with a regretful sigh, Arthur stepped out of his BMW, adjusting his cuffs as he did so. Sigan’s keep (a hole in the wall, to be perfectly honest) was in lower Albion – a place plagued by smog and unrest. Though there was technically a curfew, Arthur nevertheless could spot half a dozen night-dwellers out and about on that block alone at the early hour.

Nodding to Leon, who was standing to the side of his door, and meeting K’s eyes, Arthur quickly turned to face the crumbling building that rose out of the slums before the small Camelot posse.

With a slight shudder and straightening of his back, Arthur began his new job.

 

 

It had been a grueling meeting. Sigan had given Arthur all the major statistics regarding Camelot’s sorcerers, magical objects, and magical capabilities. Then, he’d proceeded to give the young Pendragon’s cold exterior a run for its money.

Though Arthur had never really considered his father’s description of sorcerers to be probable, after meeting with Sigan, he could fully understand the stereotype.

Sigan was a cold, bitter man. Arthur didn’t need to have a lifetime of training to be able to identify the sorcerer’s sole driving force for what is so obviously was: power hungry and cruel. The fact that Uther was using this man as the head of his team of sorcerers only confirmed Arthur’s suspicions at exactly what lengths his father would go to get what he wanted.

Which was _any_.

A slight feeling of disgust, like that of bile at the pit of his throat, rose within the young Pendragon. Though he understood Uther’s tactics – indeed, using Sigan was a good power play – it nevertheless left Arthur’s honor marred. To consort with that which you condemn – it was not within the heir’s being to consider such an action.

Alas, that was why it was _Uther_ , and not Arthur, who was carving himself an empire.

Weary, and feeling more than a little disgusted with himself, Arthur had promptly dismissed Leon, K and even Lance – his acting chauffeur – in favour of driving himself home.

He couldn’t deny that right now, he was taking the long way back to his flat.

The GPS had recalculated so many times that Arthur had nearly flung it from the car in a fit of rage. After finally turning the sodding thing off, though, the young Pendragon had chosen to continue driving deeper into the heart of lower Albion. He didn’t know what he was searching for or why he didn’t just go home and sleep (after all, it was approaching three am by now).

He just had this vague feeling that he’d know his destination when he saw it.

…Little did Arthur realise his destination would be such a _tacky_ diner.

With the curfew still in use (though not for long – Uther had specifically assigned Lamorak to work on eliminating it… _again_ ), it was a bit of a surprise to see the place lit up. The classic flickering neon sign proclaiming ‘ _Open_!’ in large, scripted words hung in the window.

Really, Arthur couldn’t resist the subconscious _tug_ to check the place out. So he parked, smoothly palming the wheel as he backing into one of the crumbling parking spots. The cool air of the autumn evening rushed to greet him and a breeze ruffled his hair as he opened the door.

There was a faint smell of salt in the air.

Sour mood as he was, Arthur nevertheless felt a pique of interest as he made his way towards the strange beacon of a diner.

Maybe there he could finally find some solace. Or, well, a cup of coffee. Arthur had skipped dinner, and tended to get grumpy when he didn’t eat. (Not that he would ever admit that out loud.)

Somewhat skeptical, speculation on the quality of the foodstuff within the little restaurant passed vaguely through the heir’s mind as Arthur wearily propped the door open. A bell jingled somewhere, and the smell of fresh pie hit the young Pendragon right in the face.

Little did he know _exactly how much_ he’d find in that rundown diner with cherry seats and checkered floors. In the end, it would be much more than coffee.

Really, unbeknownst to Arthur, he would be finding something much closer to _destiny_.

 

* * *

 

 

Usually around three, the diner would be empty – giving Merlin time to pop ‘round back and bake some of their signature pies and pastries.

There was something about the simplicity of the baking process – something in the way that Merlin would knead the doughs, roll the crusts, wait patiently for the product to come, steaming, from the oven – that would put him at ease. No matter what his stress, no matter the weight of life, or his magic, or his mother’s illness, he would be able to find solace in that short hour between the night dwellers and the morning workers.

Most nights, anyway.

Just as Merlin put a particularly tricky strawberry meringue into the oven, he heard the door click open, then shut. A chime rang throughout the diner.

Sighing, Merlin quickly wiped the better part of a coating of flour off his hands and onto his apron, and made his way towards the front counter.

“Good morning.” Merlin grinned at the man – well kept and in a business suit that truly was unbefitting of the early hour – who had taken residence at one of the less-beaten cherry-red bar stools.

The polite looking man, as it turned out, was actually not polite at all, as he rolled his eyes. “Really, how could you possibly be so _damn cheery_ at such an hour?”

Merlin scoffed, nevertheless not losing his cheeky edge, as he retorted with a playful, “What, not a morning person?”

The customer evidently, though, was having none of Merlin’s playful wordplay. Rather, the man glared, saying, “No, as a matter of fact I’m _not_. Now.” The man made a quick shooing gesture. “Get on with whatever you need to get on with, and get me a damn coffee.”

Pointedly ignoring the coffee demand, the warlock continued.

“Well if you're not a morning person,” Merlin said, the warmth draining from his voice. “Then why the _hell_ are you awake? To torment the living?”

The man gave Merlin a bit of a confused, moderately offended look. “Aren’t you supposed to be a waiter?”

Merlin bristled. “I am a waiter, yeah.”

“Well then why don’t you _act_ like it, and _shut up_ and take my order?”

Merlin’s lips thinned into a line as he bit the inside of his cheek, his face reddening at the disrespect. “What.” He bit out, swallowing his pride because the gods knew that he and Gaius needed the service, “Can I get you?”

The man flipped through the glossy menu, barely sparing a glance towards the waiter. “Coffee. Black.”

“Anything else, _sir_?” Merlin really couldn’t help the venom seeping into his voice.

“Nope,” the man said, giving Merlin an absolutely _irritating_ smile.

That damn smile followed the warlock all the way to the coffee pot and cup cabinet, digging under his skin in a way that he really couldn’t even begin to fathom as _possible_.

Merlin was quite pleased, however, with the way _said_ smile was wiped from the man’s face a moment later as the warlock slammed the coffee down on the counter with such force that it splashed with a radius of a good ten centimetres – successfully getting onto the man’s immaculate red tie. And white dress shirt. And, well, everything he was wearing.

“Oops,” Merlin said in a tone that implied that it was anything but a mistake.

The man, though, had yelped, jumping up as the scalding – and somewhat burnt – coffee connected with skin.

“You bloody _bastard_! You did that on purpose!”

[](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/2%20August_zpsvvtyjqpq.png.html)

“Did _not,_ ” Merlin replied back, feeling childish and very much irritated.

The man, in the meantime, had turned a bit red in the face. “ _You_ are lying.”

“Yeah, well _you_ are an ass.”  Just because Merlin was a waiter didn’t mean he was a doormat. Truthfully, exhaustion and worry was making him reckless, but Merlin was too sick of being treated like shit to care enough to stop this new row with what would probably be his only chance at a tip for a good hour or two.

“I could have you fired for this, you know!” the man said, glaring as he took off his ruined tie.

“Oh come off it, prat. I _must_ know, do you treat _everyone_ like shit or is that reserved mainly for _peasants_?”

The man gaped a bit at the biting sarcasm, opening his mouth, then closing it. Evidently he didn’t get many people talking so bluntly to him. Merlin really didn’t find it that hard to believe – what with the man’s whole successful-businessman aura. Finally, the businessman came up with the very original retort of, “You can’t speak to me like that!”

Merlin snorted crossing his arms. “Oh really, and why the hell not? _You’re_ speaking to _me_ like that.”

The man glared at Merlin, shooting daggers, his face morphing into something Merlin thought the bloke probably considered to be threatening. “You’re a _waiter_. You’re supposed to sit there and look pretty and take orders and be spoken to like that. Not argue with your only customer!” the man made an incredulous gesture towards Merlin’s lean body. “Besides, I could take you apart with one blow.”

It really was a blessing that the only thing that slipped between Merlin’s thoroughly affronted, clenched teeth was a deep, foreboding, “Oh, I could take you apart with less than that.”

The man snorted, looking as though he were going to test this theory, which made Merlin’s magic absolutely livid, crawling and writhing under his skin.

It was probably for the better that Gaius chose exactly that moment to show up from his break, whistling an aimless tune, fresh bag of groceries in hand.

…Which he promptly dropped at seeing Merlin and the man standing off in the middle of an otherwise empty restaurant.

“Merlin! What in the world is going on here?” the ex-physician exclaimed, clearly reading the tension vibrating through the otherwise empty diner.

“This man is being a prat!” Merlin said childishly at the exact same time Arthur said, “I demand you fire your waiter _this_ _instant_!”

Merlin shot the man next to him a scalding glare.

Gaius, ever calm, reached down to grab the produce that had spilled from his bags. Merlin shot the rude customer another burning, irritated look as he made his way around the counter, bending over to help his mentor collect the last of the scattered groceries.

Arthur watched them from where he stood in the middle of the rundown diner, feeling a bit a fool and like quite the ass, but too prideful to do anything more than stare down his nose at what had to be the most irritating man on the face of the earth. Because he really didn’t have anything else to do, Arthur then crossed his arms, effectively conveying the message of you-better-fucking-fix-this-right-now.

The owner promptly rose, and, after chiding the waiter was a stern eyebrow that Arthur was all too glad to have avoided, gave him a fresh coffee as well as some surprisingly delicious pie on the house.

 

As Arthur slid smoothly into his BMW, he couldn’t help the snort and incredulous smile that was forcing its way across his face. Really, the way that waiter had talked to _him_ -! Granted, Arthur had been a bit rude himself, but really, who could blame him? It was three am after all! Plus, his night had been absolute shit.

Putting the car into gear, the Pendragon smoothly pulled out of Dragonhouse’s crumbling excuse of a parking lot, shaking his head in an attempt to rid it of all thoughts of that waiter.

But for some reason, no matter how much he tried to think of something else – _anything_ else, Arthur’s mind continuously slipped back to stormy blue eyes and that _rude_ attitude. He nearly missed his exit because his mind was so busy wondering about the man who had _dared_ speak to a Pendragon like that.

His only real conclusion is that that waiter must’ve not known who he was. (A feat nearly impossible within itself – though Arthur didn’t make nearly as many public appearances as Uther.)

Well, whatever the man’s mental affliction was, Arthur couldn’t lose sleep over it. He had thought, morosely as he shrugged into a pair of comfortable sleeping pants. After all, Arthur was set to be in the office bright and early in about five hours.

His groan of frustration was muffled by the pillows.

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

August 29, 2016

 

It was early afternoon at a small café on the edge of a trendier part of the Avalon – the café at which Guinevere White just so happened to be spending her day off.

The young woman brought the small, white teacup up to her lips once more, sipping lightly at the mild brew while she waited. From where she was perched, she could see the waters sluggishly moving past – the twisting and churning of the currents reflecting the sunlight in sparkling whirls of light. A soft breeze laden with the scents of salt and autumn played quietly with Guinevere’s hair, tugging at the carefully pinned braid.

With a soft sigh, Guinevere once again placed the cup on its plate. Her mind was wandering once more. Lately, she found it more often than not wander to Elyan.  

Merlin always told her she worried too much (something quite rich considering it was _Merlin_ , after all). Maybe that was true, but Elyan was the type of brother you couldn’t _help_ but be bothered for. After all, he always had been managing to get himself in trouble, in with the wrong people, and inevitably on the wrong side of the law. _Though, of course, maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time Elyan would finally settle down. Maybe this time would be the time that her brother put his smarts to good use, maybe even settled enough and saved enough to be able to pay his way through uni._

Gwen snorted involuntarily, rolling her eyes. _And maybe Merlin had magic._ Who was she kidding?

Just then Guinevere was drawn from her reveries by a man approaching. He was dashingly dressed, with a charming – if not reserved – façade. His face lit up as he approached the small iron-wrought table Guinevere was seated at.

“Lance!” she exclaimed, her face shining with the intensity of her grin. It was stunning, making the whole riverfront light up.

Gwen stood up, holding her arms open for a hug.

“It’s so good to see you again, Guinevere,” Lancelot said, planting a chaste kiss on his girlfriend’s cheek.

“Oh, stop it, you. It’s only been a day.” Guinevere tucked her flowery skirt back under herself, sitting down once more as Lancelot did the same.

“To me, it was an eternity.”

Gwen gave a very unlady-like snort at that. “Oh Lancelot, you always are the romantic.”

Lancelot merely blushed, ducking his head as his hand unconsciously slid into his pocket, fingers instinctively landing on the small, square box within.

That same box had been sitting in his coat pocket for the last month.

Soon enough, though, Lancelot forgot about the engagement ring in his pocket, instead engaging in chatter with Guinevere.

 

A while later a second white teacup was brought out, along with a small platter of biscuits. The couple’s conversation began to decrease, pattering off as the pair became lost in their own thoughts. Guinevere was worrying (as Merlin had told her a million and one times not to) about Elyan. Lancelot was worrying, on the other hand, about that small, precious box within his pocket.

All the while, the Avalon moved sluggishly by, unhindered by the pair’s respective personal turmoil.

 

Approximately four hours after that particular tea date, two separate people received phone calls pertaining to the intended marriage of one Guinevere White to one Lancelot Estmort.

Merlin promptly proclaimed, at the news, that movie night be moved forward to that night in celebration. Meanwhile, Arthur gave his knight the rest of the week off, congratulating him openly on the intended marriage, and silently on moving his life past Camelot.

 

* * *

 

 

_By the time Arthur had reached his early teens, Uther had very nearly turned his son into a second shadow; meant to be seen, not heard, and charged with learning every aspect of the family business – legal and otherwise – from under the stern, steely gaze of his father._  

_After Morgana’s unfortunate removal, Arthur had been charged into Leon’s care._

_The young bodyguard had noticed a subtle, integral change in Arthur at this. No longer was he the young, naïve boy of the past:  inquiring about anything and everything and intent on riding into every foul situation on a white horse. Instead, when Morgana left, she managed to take a part of the Pendragon heir with her. Leon would find Arthur in silent contemplation more often than not. Gazing out the window, the younger man would take on an expression at once both too old and too wise for someone who had barely just struggled into their teenage years._  

_Usually these moments, where Arthur seemed so stoic and knightly, would occur after Uther had taken him – minus the bodyguard – into a private meeting. Meetings the Leon wasn’t privy too, though feared, for Arthur’s sake, the contents of. After all, Uther was a ruthless man, and intent on turning Arthur into just as cold a man._

_Very rarely would Arthur divulge the contents of said meetings._

_But sometimes, in his own guarded way, he did._

_“Leon… Is it true that Camelot…_ employs _sorcerers?”_

_The bodyguard was startled by the question. Arthur had been standing by one of the mansion’s large, grandiose windows for the better half of an hour, scarcely breathing._

_The break in the silence had been abrupt, to say the least._

_“Well - yes, sir,” Leon answered, barely remembering to stay formal in his address. Arthur, whose back was still turned to his guard and whose figure displayed the utmost lack of emotion, merely nodded._

_A moment later:_

_“It’s hypocritical.”_

_Leon raised a silent brow. Arthur was still turned away, revealing no emotion to go with his uncharacteristic statement. Nevertheless, the bodyguard hadn’t heard such blasphemous talk since Morgana left. Nobody, save her, ever dared question Uther Pendragon – publicly or otherwise. Nobody spoke criticism of him. To do so would be to bring quick and certain retribution upon oneself._

_So, this knowledge weighing heavily on his mind, Leon chose his next words very carefully._

_“Magic can only be fought with magic.”_

_Arthur hummed, his head inclining once more. He looked like he was praying, or maybe in mourning. Or maybe Leon was just too poetically inclined lately, and Arthur was merely ducking his head out of an inability to make eye contact at the moment. Whatever it was, Arthur stood like that, face to the ground._

_Then, suddenly, Arthur jerked up, pinning Leon down with his eyes. The heir’s normally stoic expression was gone, in its place was that of a child – fearful and confused. He swallowed, eyes darting back towards the ground, then a space behind Leon’s head. Refusing to make eye contact with the older man._

_Leon was beginning to understand that something paramount had happened at the most recent Camelot meeting._

_“But… Leon, I don’t understand… Why would a sorcerer want to fight to destroy magic? To destroy himself? It doesn’t make any sense!”_

_At this Leon paused, his lips thinning at the tone in the young Pendragon’s voice. He wanted to shelter the adolescent, to wipe that knowing, far off gaze from his eyes and let him unsee all the horrors that entailed the ‘family business’. Arthur was a good kid, and would be a great man – if only he didn’t have the weight of Uther’s thumb bearing down on him. Leon wanted to give this great man a chance, to bring him to fruition through affection and guidance, instead of brute force and naked exposure._

_He wanted to lie._

_But Leon was beginning to realise that Arthur would never retrieve his innocence, and that the man he was destined to become would only be hindered by any more deceit, or manipulation._

_So instead, the knight took a deep breath, choosing his next words with careful deliberation. Finally, Leon spoke:_

_“Desperation, Arthur... That’s why.”_

 

* * *

 

 

The end of the month was always the worst. Maybe it was because Merlin knew _they_ were coming. Maybe it was because he would spend the previous three weeks counting a calculating and adding and subtracting his small, small account balance. Counting, and knowing that it would just barely cut even. Barely, ever since the hospital had been added into the whole mess.

Whatever reason it was, Merlin dreaded the end of the month. He dreaded the bills.

With a sigh, the warlock ran his fingers through overgrown, messy locks. His eyes wandered from the stack of blurring numbers, across the cramped, outdated kitchen, towards Hunith’s room. The light had finally turned off.

Sometimes she stayed up, fighting off exhaustion, waiting for Merlin. Hunith wouldn’t say it, for fear of giving the notion weight, and Merlin would ignore it, out of respect more than anything else – but the woman feared for her son. A fear that grew with every Registered she passed on the street, every law passed in Parliament. Forgetting the penalty of harboring a sorcerer, Hunith was more concerned about the laws that would come crashing down – full force – on Merlin if he were ever discovered. The band that would wrap around his wrist. The doors that would shut – figuratively and literally – in his face.

She lost sleep over it.

Last night had been one of such sleepless nights.

But Hunith had chemo later in the week, and Merlin had bills to pay, so when he’d stumbled in after an extended shift at Dragonhouse – sky streaking with the first rays of dawn – the young warlock had simply nodded, kissed his mum on the head, and led her back to her room.

Now, she was asleep.

Shaking his head, Merlin forced himself to concentrate. The numbers still blurred, though.

It had been a long day, and an even longer night. Working straight through – no break, no nap – at Le Chateau then Dragonhouse always left him bone tired. That, on top of Gwen’s announcement (amazing as it was), had left Merlin a very exhausted man indeed.

It hadn’t been the fact that Guinevere was finally settling down that had worn on Merlin’s psyche – it had been the realisation that money would be short in the next few months, if he were to save up enough to buy her and Lance a proper wedding gift. After all, if anyone deserved a good and proper wedding, it was Gwen. And though Merlin couldn’t assure that, the next best thing he _could_ assure was that she got a good and proper wedding _present_.

With a heartfelt sigh, the warlock pushed the bills – and his checkbook – away.  His head met the table before he even fully registered the motion.

_Just need to close my eyes…_

 

Merlin dreamed.

He dreamed of other worlds – virgin and pure. He dreamed of yawning forests hiding decaying ruins, and stretches of moor housing the shrines of knights and kings and deeper, more sinister creatures. He dreamed of Magic, crisp and fresh – unbent to the will of mortals and unyielding to the hands of men – pulsating like a natural vein instead of a ruinous cut. He dreamt of shadowy figures stalking brilliantly dressed knights, and of a castle, glistening and white, in the distance – always too far from reach.

In his dreams the earth was at peace, and young, and fresh. Unmarred in its inherent essence.

The dreams turned though, becoming darker. Sinister evil – still pure in its corruption – began to overshadow the city. The forests grew dark with it, the foul nature growing and winding like a foreign vine – or growing fog. Fear laced the blank faces Merlin met, while the spiraling city was overshadowed by constant fires, and constant smog. Fear turned to hatred, and hatred turned to violence.

Ancient lands grew dim, then black.

All the while, Merlin watched. Scenery changed. Buildings grew, corruption spread. The earth began to take on a tainted feel, the magic a crumbling texture. Soon, the forests fell, and plagues grew.

All the while, Merlin waited.

 

When the warlock awoke, face tucked into a now scattered stack of bills, it was with a shout – that of a name – and a realisation.

For Merlin knew, for some unknown reason, that he had just seen the kingdom of Camelot. Camelot, whose whitewashed towers and yawning forests were to him as strangely familiar as the aged face of a long-absent friend.

Shrugging sleep from his frame, Merlin groaned, rolling his shoulders, and shook his head.

Contemplation about eerie dreams would just have to wait.

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

September 5, 2016

The second time the man – Arthur – showed up at Dragonhouse, Merlin thought it was some sort of sick joke. Honestly, he wouldn't put it past the exceptionally rude customer to swing by just so he could rub it in Merlin's face that Gaius had specifically _forbade_ any further retaliation. 

Merlin had groaned, picking up his notepad, and trudged over to the corner booth where Mr. Prat (as Merlin had secretly taken to calling him) was sitting, going over a stack of crisp spread sheets.

"What," the waiter ground his teeth together in a (failed) attempt to sound polite. "Do you want."

Arthur didn't look up from his papers, wholly ignoring the man next to him.

With a glare, Merlin cleared his throat.

At this, light blue eye flickered up to look at Merlin's very impatient form.

"I'm sorry, was that meant for me?" Arthur said, knowing fully well it _indeed_ _was_. After all, Arthur was, once again, the only patron in the whole restaurant. Damn him.

"No, _sir_ ," Merlin said, dripping sarcasm, "It was for the _booth_."

Light blond eyebrows raised in amusement. "Oh well, then I best not impede -"

"Oh my god," Merlin groaned. "It was _sarcasm_ , you prissy arse. _Yes_ that was meant for you! Now what the hell do you want?"

Arthur looked thoroughly amused, which made Merlin really wonder about exactly how burnt he could make his coffee without it being obvious that he had tried to.

"Is that a personal question or professional?"

"Why are you back _here_ ?" Merlin ground out. "I'm pretty sure there are plenty of places for 'not morning people' like yourself to go lurk at this hour… Like oh I don’t know, a _bed_."

Arthur never lost his smirk. "Well I really _do_ like the pies here-"

Merlin pulled a skeptical face.

"- and the _service_ is absolutely flooring."

Merlin contemplated setting the man before him on fire.

"Speaking of which, when may I place my order?" Arthur gave an award winning smile that – if it didn't accompany an absolute _wanker_ of a bloke – would have probably made Merlin swoon.

The warlock glared, very much _not_ swooning, and grumbled something about 'anytime would be good' considering that 'the diner is bleeding empty, after all'. Arthur, being an infuriating ass, merely smiled and ordered a black coffee with peach cobbler.

 

Twenty minutes later, Merlin threw down a thoroughly burnt slice of cobbler and cold, charcoal flavored coffee. 

Arthur didn't complain.

Instead, he left a ten pound note for a five pound meal, and showed up three nights later inquiring about their angel food cake, and was it really as good as the advertisement on the chalkboard claimed it to be?

And before Merlin knew it, he had a new regular.

 


	3. Waiting for the shadows,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been hectic and I feel horrible for putting this off, but here's an update finally!

  
  


_ May 2017 _

_ "So," Arthur said, smirking from behind an ice cream cone. "Tell me about yourself." _

_ Merlin quirked an eyebrow but didn't question the ominous look on his date’s face. Instead, the younger man took another bite from his own cone of soft-serve. He held up a finger, taking a moment to swallow his mouthful of food. Finally, a moment later, Merlin repeated: _

_ "Tell you about myself?"  _

_ "Mmhum." Arthur made a noise of confirmation through his own mouthful of food, not noticing the rather playful look that was seeping into Merlin’s eyes.  _

_ Merlin chuckled at this, taking another, more modest, lick. "Isn't that a bit vague and cliché?" _

_ "Well what do you want? A form to fill out?" _

_ "I don't want that, but really with a bloke like you... Well, I wouldn’t put something like that past you…" Merlin gave his date a skeptical once over. Arthur bumped his shoulder, playfully scowling. _

_ “I’m offended,” Arthur said with false incredulity.  _

_ Merlin giggled at it, suddenly giddy. He averted his eyes for a moment, long lashes flickering as he glanced up at Arthur’s false scowl. _

_ Arthur's glare broke soon enough though as a chuckle of his own bubbled past his lips; the waiter always did have a contagious laugh. _

_ "So." _

_ "So?" Merlin echoed, his laughter having finally died down. _

_ "So... How did you come to be such a  _ delicious  _ baker?" Arthur was giving Merlin a sideways look, as though he were truly intrigued. _

_ Merlin paused, his face an unreadable mask. Arthur had half expected a lewd remark, but instead the man next to him had taken on a rather… fond expression. _

_ "I - was sick a lot as a child." Merlin gave a soft, breathtaking smile, ice cream forgotten for the moment. "Mum always had to keep me inside, it seemed, and, well, I usually ended up helping with dinner." He chuckled a bit, eyes still distant in his reminiscing. He actually hadn’t usually been sick – rather, Hunith had been worried that Merlin would reveal his true nature in his youth. That led to many, many days spent at home, inside, with books and a well-stocked kitchen as his only company. _

_ Merlin bit his lip as long-repressed memories of those halcyon days pushed to the surface of his mind. _

_ Arthur watched Merlin as he became distant, feeling as though he were intruding on something private. An uncomfortable silence fell between the pair, ice cream momentarily forgotten. _

_ Then suddenly Merlin looked up, shaking himself from the webs of memory. He met Arthur’s eyes, and really it was as though the young Pendragon were seeing the other for the first time. Merlin - totally oblivious to his date's growing inability to breathe in his presence - grinned, flushing away all traces of a somber atmosphere with the action. _

_ "But that was a long time ago." And just like that, the mood changed. Merlin's grin grew, gaining a mischievous glint as he spoke. “Now it’s my turn to ask some questions.” _

_ Arthur frowned, broken from his moderately love-sickened trance. "I don't think that's a wise choice." _

_ Merlin snorted into his soft serve, having rediscovered the cone in his hand, and shoved his face into it with a renewed vigor. "Mphhum." His words were rather muffled by the mouthful of food, and Arthur couldn’t help but take the opportunity to mock him. _

_ "Pardon? I didn't quite get that." A grin appeared on Arthur's face. _

_ "Oh shove it, you prat! I was saying, it's only  _ fair _." _

_ In Arthur's defense, he tried to protest, he really did. But at the end of the day, Merlin Ealdor had more bullheaded determination than even a Pendragon. _

_ "Fine okay, okay! What do you want to know?" _

_ "Hmm. Well, firstly, how did you get to be so..." Merlin gestured at Arthur's immaculate slacks and polo. _

_ "Stunning?" Arthur offered. _

_ "Prissy, was more of what I was thinking," Merlin said matter-of-factly, shooting the other man a sly grin. _

_ Arthur made a noise of mock affront. “What, is a guy not allowed to look nice?” _

_ Merlin snorted. “That’s not the problem, mate. It’s that dashing personality that goes with the outfit –“ _

_ “Oi!” Arthur protested. _

_ “ – and the fact that you wear a suit at three in the bloody morning every night!” Merlin finished, shooting Arthur a playful look. _

_ “Well, what can I say? I think I look pretty dashing in a suit.” _

_ “That’s not the point, though!” _

_ “So you admit that I’m dashing? You didn’t disagree,”Arthur said pointedly. _

_ “Oh hell, Arthur.” Merlin glared at the other man, his face contorted comically. “Why do you think I would say yes to a date if I didn’t at least find you moderately attractive?” _

_ Arthur’s only response was to hum non-commentally, looking away from where Merlin was staring him down. He looked as though he were trying to disconcern something, face marred with a genuine frown. _

_ “What?”Merlin said. _

_ “Mmm, nothing.” _

_ “C’mon, Arthur, don’t be a prat. What is it? Is it about this date?” _

_ Arthur was suddenly much more modest, closing off a bit as he went to take another bite of his soft-serve. He glanced at Merlin for a moment, then flickered his eyes away guiltily.  _

_ “Ohhh,” Merlin said after a moment, expression clearing before it grew into something of disbelief. “Oh, you wanker! You think this is a pity date, don’t you?” _

_ Arthur raised his eyebrows, mouth half full of food. “Nomph…” _

_ “Oh yes you do! Oh you bloody…” Merlin slapped Arthur’s arm playfully, giving him an incredulous laugh. “I might be one to pass out charity, but I sure as hell am not wasting the small amount of free time I do have on bloody  _ pity dates.”

_ And just like that, the tension that had built between them dissolved. Their banter soon returned in full force, and it was only afterwards that Arthur realised what had made him so put upon, so insecure. _

_ It was the shocking realisation that he might just be falling wholly and inexplicably for Merlin. _

  
[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

September 12, 2016 

It had been seemingly ages since Hunith had been able to prepare dinner for Merlin and herself, what with her constant exhaustion. That never stopped her from keeping her son company while he cooked in the evenings, though.

It had become a sort of ritual for the pair. Hunith would sit down at the rickety table with a fresh cuppa, while Merlin would don his apron and pull out the cooking supplies. Then, as the warlock chattered on about this, that and the other, Hunith would listen, a small smile gracing her face.

Usually Merlin would talk about work, or possibly a book he had read recently (and which he would undoubtedly soon be passing on to his mum’s small bookshelf). They would go back and forth like this for a bit, until dinner was ready.

Tonight was just such a night, and as Merlin chopped various vegetables he began to speak.

“You know, mum, there’s this man.”

Hunith raised her eyebrows, taking a knowing sip from her tea. After all, she’d known from a young age her son’s disposition when it came to dating.

“Oh? And? Is he handsome?”

Merlin snorted, his chopping becoming more vigorous. “Pff, maybe on the outside. But really, he’s an absolute  _ asshole _ –“

“Merlin!”

“ –and such a prat! Oh, and did I mention  _ rude _ ? And he always comes in around three! When I’m supposed to be working on restocking all the bakery goods!” Merlin went on, a comically large frown warping his features.

Hunith hid her laugh with a cough. “Well, Merlin, he sounds like an absolutely  _ charming _ young man.”

Merlin turned around to give his mum a dark,  _ burning _ look. “I am  _ not _ attracted to  _ Arthur _ .”

“So Arthur’s his name, now is it?”

“Mum! That’s not the point!”

Hunith merely laughed, taking another pointed sip from her tea.

After all, she was pleased to find that Merlin was finally getting comfortable enough with their situation - her ailing health - to be considering dating. Her smile subsided, as the reality of how much her illness had inhibited Merlin’s social life hit her. Unconsciously, Hunith brought a hand up to scratch under the scarf covering her head, scalp tender where once-lush hair had been.

Merlin didn’t notice the change in his mother’s mood though, and kept talking, moving on to his most recent reading endeavour. 

* * *

 

Coincidentally, Arthur was having nearly the exact same conversation at that exact same moment, with Leon.

“I’m telling you, he’s absolutely obnoxious!” Arthur said, dodging a kick from his second in command.

“You’re talking about the waiter, again, right?” Leon replied, smoothly knocking aside an uppercut and countering with a hook to the left.

“Of course I am. God and he’s there every night. He’s bloody rude, you know that? Why, the first time I went in there he threw coffee on my custom-tailored Armani suit! Would you believe it? That type of shite doesn’t just _come out_ of an _Armani_ _suit_.”

Leon grunted in response, a bit too busy trying to block Arthur’s increasingly ferocious onslaught to actually  _ speak _ .

Arthur sighed, totally oblivious to his second in command’s state.

It was only after they’d gone two matches and were making their way towards the locker room that the conversation resumed.

“Sounds like a wanker, to me.”  

Arthur snorted, raising a water bottle to his lips. “Understatement of the year.”

“Why don’t you just stop going?” Leon said, running a hand through damp hair.

“I love the pie,” Arthur said automatically, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel. “Plus, it’s a quaint little place.”

Leon was silent, then – keeping any further comments to himself. Though of course he couldn’t help but let a knowing smile stretch across his face as he raised the water bottle once again to his lips.

After all, a partner in Arthur’s life would do the man some good.

Smiling, Leon watched as Arthur wandered around the changing room, his phone already out and in his hand again. The man in question was typing vigorously, a small frown contorting his features. Arthur only ever got such a look when talking to Uther. 

Leon sighed at this, looking away from Arthur and enjoying the last few moments of peace before they would undoubtedly have to do some ‘essential’ errand for the crimelord. At least Leon didn’t have to shoulder the full brunt of Uther’s expectations. 

Arthur, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. Leon frowned. Yes, a partner in Arthur’s life would do him some good. After all, it was pretty obvious how smitten he currently was.

 

* * *

 

 

_ January 2018 _

_ The wind was strong; a storm was blowing in. The grassy knolls swirled and danced under the unrelenting pressure of the air, while the distant ocean crashed and reverberated in steely waves upon the beach. The sky and water matched each other – their combined colour that of nearly uniform iron. _

_ Merlin merely laid there, on a patch of grass upon the hilltop, watching the angry scenery. _

_ He seemed to be laying in wait: a sentinel left to watch the incoming tempest. _

_ Next to him, Arthur stretched himself out into a more or less comfortable position. He pulled his jacket closer around his figure; the wind had a bite to it – though that was to be expected on the eastern coast this time of year. _

_ His eyes followed Merlin’s line of sight. _

_ The younger man’s vision was lost in the turbulent sea. His eyes seemingly matched the colour of the unsettled waters before them. _

_ Shaking his head, Arthur silently moved closer, snaking an arm around the waiter’s lean shoulders. “Are you cold?” _

_ Merlin shook his head at the same moment a shiver wracked his frame. All the while, the grass around them swayed. “No,” he murmured, obviously too occupied within his own mind to recognise what Arthur was asking. _

_ Arthur snorted, rolling his eyes as he protectively brought the younger man closer into his embrace, trying to shield him from the unrelenting gale. “Yes you are, you idiot.” _

_ “Prat,” Merlin muttered under his breath, leaning into Arthur’s warmth even as he failed to break eye contact with the horizon. _

_ Arthur ignored the weak comment, instead choosing to rub circles on Merlin’s shoulder. “Do you want to go? There’s a B and B that I hear has quite exceptional tea not half an hour back.” _

_ “No,” Merlin said, then seemed to reconsider as another shiver wracked his lean frame. “Just a couple more minutes.” _

_ Arthur withheld his sigh, instead fixating on the sheer  _ nearness _ of his lover. He was determined to get the most out of this trip to the coast as he could. After all, it was the first time he had taken a day off of work (respectable or otherwise) in nearly ten years. So, the young Pendragon instead settled down closer (if that was even possible) to the man next to him, intent on relaxing. _

_ But Arthur was never a patient man, and not five minutes later, he broke the silence. _

_ “What are you thinking about?” _

_ This time, Merlin did look at Arthur.  _

_ “Things,” he said ominously, though a small, intimate smile played on his lips. _

_ Arthur chuckled, ruffling the younger man’s hair. “I know  _ that, Mer _ lin. I mean what  _ types _ of things are you thinking about?” _

_ Merlin made a noise at the back of his throat. “I dunno. Just. Do you ever think that maybe there’s something more? In life, I mean?” _

_ Arthur paused at this, his fingers sliding from where they’d begun massaging Merlin’s scalp. “What do you mean?” _

_ Merlin sighed, propping himself up onto an elbow. “I guess… do you ever just feel as though your life is meant to be something more? That you’re meant to actually do more than just  _ exist _?” _

_ Arthur was silent, unsure as to what to make of that statement. For a moment the only sound was that of waves hitting the coast. Then: _

_ “Forget I said anything.” _

_ In that moment, Arthur could’ve responded, protested Merlin’s demand and continued that vein of thought. He could’ve quelled Merlin’s worries, reassuring him of his worth, of his existence, of the value of merely breathing… _

_ But Arthur didn’t. He remained silent, resuming his stroking motion, making Merlin involuntarily lean into him. The fact that was (troublingly enough) beginning to grow within the depths of the heir’s mind was that maybe Merlin was onto something. Maybe his lot, hell – their lots, in life weren’t meant to be just this. Maybe Arthur wasn’t meant to just be his father’s son. _

_ But this vein of thought scared Arthur – it went against everything he had been led to believe and he wasn’t ready – couldn’t be for a long time, to even begin to delve into where such traitorous thoughts would lead. So instead, Arthur dropped it. _

_ With a heartfelt sigh, Arthur turned back to gaze at the horizon. _

_ After all, a storm was coming. _

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

Early morning, September 13, 2016

It was a slow night, the curfew having put somewhat of a dent in Dragonhouse's usual flow of customers. It had been a long day at Le Chateau, and even longer once the warlock had gotten home. Merlin couldn't even deny that he was tired, exhausted really, and in need of a major nap time.

Instead, though, he was wiping off the faded countertops at Gaius' diner.

The backroom door opened, startling Merlin out of his daze. Out came a kid, hair wild and curly from sleep, with piercing blue eyes.

Merlin stared at him. The kid hesitated. Finally:

"Are you Merlin?" The child had a perfect accent, surprisingly posh for the area.

"Yes...?" Merlin trailed off, trying to remember if he recognised the kid or not. He didn’t remember taking in any children earlier that day – though it was possible that he was exhausted enough to not have remembered.

"Gaius said... To ask you for some food?" The kid looked hopeful, and all of the warlock's doubts melted away. Gaius had probably let the kid into the back room earlier, before Merlin's shift, to nap.

"Yeah, yeah, just sit on down and make yourself comfortable, and lemme go grab something. You drink tea?"

The kid nodded, watching the warlock bustle about with unsettlingly intelligent eyes.

Merlin hesitated only for a minute as the kid hoisted himself onto a cherry red barstool, then disappeared into the kitchen.

The warlock reappeared, plate of a hearty fry-up – consisting of a good helping of bacon and scrambles – in hand, to those same knowing eyes. With a nervous smile (because really, what else could such scrutiny evoke?) Merlin deposited the plate on the counter.

The kid flashed a look of distaste – one so quick that if Merlin had blinked, he would’ve missed it – before digging into the mound of food.

Merlin gulped, feeling wholly unsettled by this new kid. Granted, considering the child’s posh accent and evident dislike for diner food, he was probably some upper Albion runaway who managed to stray too far from the family mansion. That would explain the judging, calculating eyes, wouldn’t it?

Merlin tried to believe his explanation, but for some reason the kid – who was now piling his teacup with ample amounts of creamer and sugar – seemed off.

Merlin’s brooding was quickly interrupted by the tell-tale clinking of the diner’s front doors. Another customer – one of the gruffer type – came ambling in. Soon, the child all but faded from the waiter’s mind as he lost himself in his work: doling out pastries and teas while balancing a half full, freshly brewed coffee pot on one arm, adding a smile with every movement.

It was only near the end of his shift that Merlin remembered the kid, whose blue eyes were as piercing and veiled as ever. Giving another hesitant smile, the warlock quickly slid a large slice of banoffee pie in front of the youth. Then, with a toothy grin, Merlin popped into the backroom to grab his threadbare scarf and bid Gaius goodbye.

Just as the door slapped shut behind him and the warlock was taking a deep, chilled breath of autumn air, he heard a faint voice – eerily sourceless and childlike – carried on the breeze.

_ Goodbye, Emrys… Until we meet again. _

Groggily, the mage rubbed his eyes. He was definitely beginning to hear things…

Merlin puffed his cheeks out, blowing out the held air as though its release would trigger that of the weight on his shoulders, too. Then, shoving quickly numbing hands into deep pockets, he began the fairly long walk back to his flat.

In the distance, the sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon.

* * *

 

Arthur ran a frustrated hand through his short, clipped hair – dislodging the perfectly laid locks in the process. The statistics on Camelot’s magical assets (as Uther was so quick to call them) were woefully mild. Where there had once been dozens of trained sorcerers on Camelot’s pay even three years ago, there were now mainly desperate civilians who were able to make a cheap trick here and there, and magical slaves – obtained under the table and (irritatingly enough) without even  _ Arthur’s _ knowledge.

Groaning, his face in his hands, Arthur willed the clusterfuck that was the state of Camelot’s sorcery ‘department’ to go away. If only it was that easy.

With a resigned sigh, the heir reigned in his displeasure. After all, Pendragons didn’t get  _ frustrated _ . They merely found a way around – or preferably and usually  _ through _ – whatever obstacles lay within their paths.

It was just unfortunate that Arthur’s path in life seemed to be riddled with debris. Fallout from his father’s rise to power, shrapnel from the continual war against sorcerers and all things magic, dust and gravel whipped up into the atmosphere by all the overlapping hypocrisy and underhanded dealings –

And, of course, a settling fog in the form of one Merlin Ealdor.

Arthur gritted his teeth together, willing the annoying thoughts of the waiter from his mind. He refused to believe the young, obnoxious, insubordinate, handsome bloke to be anything beyond a source of amusement. After all, no one  _ dared  _ talk to a man of Camelot, let alone a  _ Pendragon _ , with anything less than the upmost respect and reverence.

The only reason Arthur was even giving Merlin a passing glance was because the younger man seemed either wholly ignorant of the heir’s true identity, or was just plain stupid.

Arthur snorted involuntarily at the dawning realisation that when it came to Merlin, both options were equally probable.

Arthur immediately squashed the traitorous muscles in his face’s attempt to form something liken to a fond smile. That wouldn’t do. Instead, he drew his figure up, seemingly expanding until he was rigidly perched within his seat.

After all, slouching was unbecoming, and not in the repertoire of mannerisms of a leader.

That thought – that had been schooled into him by the firm hand of his tutors and nannies and the cold disdain of his father – sobered Arthur, drawing him back to reality. To the large mass of work in front of him. 

Fingers listlessly fluttered over the papers scattered in orderly chaos across Arthur’s desk as he grasped for some form of reprieve from Camelot’s current predicament. After all, the statistics were disarming, and the harrowing truth was that Camelot was losing ground on the magical front, and fast. True, the most recent street battle against Cenred’s forces had been a successful win on Camelot’s part. But it was only a battle. If anyone had bothered to question the solidity of Camelot’s position in the underworld, then they would’ve noticed that  _ overall _ , they were losing the war.

It just so happened to be a slow, slipping kind of fall from grace.

Things needed to change, and fast. Camelot was stationary in a turbulent time. Magic was becoming closer and closer to being wholly illegal – no if, ands or buts – thanks to Uther’s constant string-pulling. Yet at the same time magic was also becoming an increasingly vital aspect of the underground scene – the arts, ranging from dark to mundane, were becoming a commodity of high demand, and decreasing supply.

Simply put, sorcerers were being killed, or locked away, faster than they were born. 

Though Arthur could commend Uther’s ability to manipulate the government and general public into inadvertently cornering and funneling sorcerers and creatures of magic into the hands of the criminal underground, he nevertheless couldn’t help but resent his father’s lack of foresight – after all, even thought there was more magic on the market, it just so happened to also be of a generally lower breed and make. The more formidable sorcerers were becoming scarce – fleeing the nation in the face of inevitable, animalistic persecution, else already quietly captured and contained as a hazard to the public. The two pence mages, on the other hand, were increasing. After all, there were very few job options for registered users – and even fewer means by which they could inactivate their bracelets.

What did this mean for Camelot? They needed stronger magic. They needed a more formidable army of sorcerers. They needed training, and they needed power, and they needed a means by which to recruit magic users who the government would otherwise cage away – key tossed and lock left to rust…

A small, sad smile flickered across Arthur’s face – there only a moment, then gone, like a mirage upon the horizon, or a drop hitting the surface of an otherwise placid tarn.

They needed to call upon some favours within the police force.

Letting out the breath he didn’t realise was burning within his lungs, Arthur reached for his phone, his fingers tapping the screen with the ease and grace of muscle memory.

He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he heard the dial tone cut short as the other line picked up.

“Ms Turner, is it? Yes, please do inform Kiligan that Arthur Pendragon means to speak with him.”

 

* * *

 

_ May 2017  _

_ The pair laid on Arthur’s plush bed, limp and boneless. Or more specifically  _ Arthur _ laid; Merlin sprawled more than anything else, his legs tangling in equal lengths with Arthur’s and the bed sheets. From outside the window, the faint, tell-tale hum of humanity and city-life could be heard. It filtered through the thick curtains in whirls and eddies – lacing the sunlight that managed the sneak past the heavy fabrics like an eddying current. _

_ The pair paid the outside world no mind. If they were to be perfectly honest with themselves, it wasn’t just because they were partially brain-dead in their post-coital bliss. _

_ But they weren’t perfectly honest, and so neither man thought too hard about their personal motives for hiding away, and forgetting the world. Instead, they laid together while their breathing evened out, riding their respective highs. _

_ After a few moments, Arthur drew Merlin closer to him – pulling the lithe man into a sloppy embrace. The young warlock only gave a muffled huff of protest before, droopy-eyed and exhausted, he complied, and repositioned himself against the hard lines of his lover’s body. _

_ Arthur’s fingers threaded their way through the long, unruly locks that graced Merlin’s head – paying no mind to the drying sweat that made the otherwise healthy hair limp and chaotic. At these ministrations Merlin gave a muffled noise of encouragement and approval, burrowing deep into the crook of Arthur’s arm and pressing his nose to the heir’s neck. He gave a breathy sigh – content in his mindless bliss. _

_ Arthur wasn’t so lucky. His mind was elsewhere, true, though not nearly as careless. _

_ Lately the young Pendragon had been thinking, his mind traveling to places unwanted and unpleasant. At first he’d squashed all thoughts of regrets or guilt, outright. After all, he’d always been told that such emotions not only showed weakness, but undermined one’s abilities as a leader. Regrets led to second-guessing, which led to sloppy work – and every criminal knew exactly how detrimental a sloppy job – be it anything from an under-table loan to a body dump – was. Incriminating at best. Deadly, if you were less lucky. _

_ Yet Arthur just couldn’t  _ help _ it. Questions that had been dormant ever since Morgana’s death had suddenly been awoken – chewing their way out of the woodwork of Arthur’s mind and taking up an unpleasant residence within the edges of his brain. _

_ Arthur wasn’t blind enough to deny that Merlin had a part in this awakening. It was frankly a fact of life that the waiter just seemed to bring out  _ things _ in everyone he met. Nevertheless, these emotions – so long repressed and shoved aside – were leaving Arthur confused and somewhat terrified – if he were to be perfectly honest. _

_ Because Arthur was questioning his inheritance. His father’s rule. The means that Camelot used to get to an end. _

_ Whether or not Arthur even wanted to  _ be _ in Albion. _

_ Arthur closed his eyes, willing these thoughts to leave his mind, willing himself to fall into a similar state of pseudo-awareness as Merlin. _

_ It didn’t work, but it was the thought that counted. _

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

September 15, 2016

It was nighttime, and Merlin felt ill at ease.

He felt eyes on him.

It was late, and the diner had been empty, besides for a teenage runaway sleeping off a hangover in the backroom for what was becoming the better part of an hour.

Taking advantage of the lull in business, Merlin had busied himself with rolling silverware and balancing the drawer.

His back had been turned.

Yet now, he felt the certain, prickly mark of a gaze upon him. It was palpable, slimey and crawling.

The door hadn’t clicked, the bells hadn’t chimed; yet sure enough, as Merlin turned around, he most definitely spotted someone occupying one of Dragonhouse’s infamous cherry red barstools.

The woman’s face was caked in makeup, giving the illusion of a youthfulness that, under the somewhat sterile lights of the diner, was quickly fading. Her hair was lifted in a manner that suggested hours of prepping – held in place by probably a whole can of hairspray. The woman’s clothing was tight and revealing; her body lithe yet somehow  _ wrong _ .

That’s what it was; Merlin felt as though there was something  _ wrong _ . The air about her tightened and curled, while her eyes pierced and analysed.

And then Merlin felt it: a low buzzing. The hum that ran throughout the diner, traveling from the cherry red stool on which this woman was daintily perched and up the warlock’s spine, was wholly unnatural.

Magical.

Merlin involuntarily shivered. Then, realising he had been staring at the fading woman for far too long than was proper, he quickly swallowed all misgivings and approached where she was seated.

“Good morning! What can I get you?” Merlin ignored his feeling for the moment, instead drawing on false brevity. 

The woman eyed Merlin’s toothy grin with an unreadable, flaccid look.

Disarmed yet nevertheless not deterred, Merlin merely smiled and plopped a menu in front of her. “You coming in for anything in particular?”

The woman smiled at this, coyly eyeing the waiter from underneath her too-large lashes. Not fake, but also not natural.  _ Wrong _ , Merlin’s brain helpfully supplied. Like he couldn't fucking see that,  _ feel  _ that -

“Actually, I am.” she smirked, and there it was again. The humming. Another shiver involuntarily shot up Merlin’s spine.

Merlin pointedly ignored it in favor of waiting for the woman to continue.

Instead she just kept looking at the waiter in a manner liken to the look a scientist would give a specimen. Her eyes were keen and slippery as they moved to pick apart the young man.

Finally Merlin broke the silence, shuffling uncomfortably. “Um, coffee or tea while you wait?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, no!” A light, fake laugh bubbled from aging, painted lips. “I think you must be mistaken, Mr…?”

“Ealdor,” Merlin said, eyeing the woman’s obvious façade with a growing distrust.

The woman grinned, all white teeth and dimples and heavily applied blush. “Mr. Ealdor. No, I am actually not here to try your…  _ delicious _ menu.” Her eyes flickered towards the laminated plastic still sitting, untouched, in front of her with obvious distaste. The emotion was gone as soon as it came, though, as the woman flipped a lock of hair behind her shoulder, and smiled again. “No. Actually, I was sent by my employer.”

Merlin’s eyebrows rose a bit at this. So this woman was a secretary, then? Weird, considering the time of night. “Oh, really? Well, if it’s business related, then I’m just a server. I mean, sometimes I make a pie or two, but the person you would want to talk to is Gaius, the owner. I can go grab him if you want –“

The waiter swiveled on his heels, intent on passing over this eerie woman to his manager, only to have his arm caught at the last minute.

Her grip was like an icy vice.

Merlin shivered again, his eyes glued to the spot where her pink, pointed nails dug into his wrist.

“Don’t worry about that,  _ love _ .” The pet name was spit, like saccharine, slithering down Merlin’s spine to settle uncomfortably in his gut. 

Merlin’s eyes traveled up the too-tan arm, meeting predatory eyes. Was it just him, or did her teeth look a bit too sharp?

Merlin gulped.

The woman took this as a sign to continue, her smile widening into something wholly malicious.

“You see, all I really want is to extend some help.” She was leaning on the counter; her bosom displayed in a manner that she probably thought to be advantageous. Her voice was lower, becoming a murmur as she rubbed circles on the warlock’s inner wrist.

Merlin resisted the urge to vomit. The hum was becoming overwhelming, an undercurrent of electricity thrumming up his arm, vibrating through the room, setting Merlin’s teeth on edge.

“I hear that this place does a lot of that. Extend help, I mean.” A knowing twinkle in her eye. “To… the less fortunate.”

Merlin couldn’t help but continue to glance back down at that claw of a hand. “Sometimes, yeah.”

She nodded, her grin returning. “Well, my employer is interested in offering jobs to the likes that tend to…  _ dwell _ here.”

Merlin felt his blood run cold. “The likes that tend to dwell here?” His voice was rock hard even as his stomach began to drop.

The woman smiled. “Yes, Mr. Ealdor. We both know who I’m talking about.” Her smile dropped at the same moment her hand released Merlin’s arm.

“I don’t know wha –“

“Cut the bullshit, Ealdor,” the woman snapped, her charm dropping, the wrongness of her voice turning downright disgusting. “Don’t try and tell me that Dragonhouse doesn’t have a name for itself among lower Albion – we both know it does. All my employer wants to do is offer a chance for some of the less fortunate to still be able to earn money… without  _ discrimination _ .” She was smiling again, her voice smoothing out quickly.

“Actually,” she continued, coyly glancing at Merlin through her lashes, “he would probably love to meet you, too,  _ cutie  _ \- if you're looking for some extra cash.”

Merlin went stiff. Desperately, he hoped the woman was insinuating something like prostitution. He doubted it, though. “I don’t know what you're talking about,” Merlin deadpanned, leveling his gaze at the woman across from him. All friendliness had drained from the warlock.

The woman looked at - no, into - Merlin, her eyes sliding uncomfortably up and down his lean figure. Then, the woman began digging into her purse. “Sure, honey.”

She smirked as she spoke, and pulled out a card – thin, plain, and consisting of only a phone number.

“But, just in case… Here’s his card.”

And just like that, the woman was up, sweeping out of the room in a gush of expensive perfume.

The door chimed this time – clacking shut behind the echo of her high heels.

Merlin felt numb.

A minute passed, then two, then three – then a shaky hand reached out to grasp the thin piece of paper left on the cheap countertop.

It was, in fact, only a number.

Only a number.

Merlin suddenly dropped the card, feeling his stomach churn, and made a dash towards the bathroom.

He heaved, his magic churning in a whirlwind of disgust, his stomach emptying its contents into the toilet bowl.

* * *

 

Cenred King blew a puff of smoke, leaning back in his overstuffed leather chair.

“Powerful, you say?” The criminal cocked an eyebrow, lazily letting his eyes slide to the nymph currently kneeling before him.

“Yes, sir. Very powerful. The likes of which I have never felt before.” The woman smiled – something sickly and predatory – then continued. “I would very much like to get a taste of that power…” Her lashes batted as she cocked her head in a quick, coy motion, at her employer.

Cenred paused at this, taking another drag from the joint in his fingers, his fingers tracing lazy figures on the worn leather armrest.

Finally:

“This power… how are you certain of it? You scarcely touched him.” Brown eyes bore down on the woman across the room, making the nymph involuntarily shiver, looking away.

“His magic is unreal. The very air thrummed with it – I needn’t even have touched the man to gauge it.” The nymph hesitated for a mere moment, eyes still averted. But that was enough. Cenred - even in his mellow, drugged state - caught the pause, the hesitant exhalation, and gripped onto it.

“What is it?” It was scarcely more than a hiss in the silent room. The fire crackled in the fireplace, steam trailing from the slightly rotten wood.

“I –…” A pause. Then: “I think he…  _ sensed _ me.”

“Impossible,” Cenred quickly scoffed, leaning back and taking another drag from the joint in his hand. “No sorcerer can be powerful enough to ‘sense’ a nymph’s magic.”

“Well he wasn’t fooled by my glamour.”

“Well your glamour must be getting a little rusty then,  _ doll _ ,” Cenred sneered, pausing only for a second to take in the burnt down stub of his roach before smashing it into an expensive crystal ashtray. He moved to stand, then just as quickly towered over the nymph. Her cheeks were flushing pink with indignation, but she wisely kept still, with averted eyes.

King smiled then, stretching. “Nevertheless, if what you say is true, then it would be in my company’s best interest to do a little bit of… research into this  _ Ealdor _ .”

Cenred raised his voice, beginning to cross the room. “Fran. Send for Freya immediately. I have work for her.” Then he paused.

Softly, he addressed her. 

“Now, love, if I find that you’ve been taking the piss with this waiter, then I will find you, and I will  _ hurt _ you.” He leaned in, and the nymph daren’t move a muscle, no matter how much they strained to do so as King brushed his lips across the shell of her ear, hissing, “…And I might just do more than that,  _ darling _ .”

And just like that, the criminal swept out of the room, leaving the stiff, ever so slightly trembling figure of the nymph to sway in the dancing waves of firelight.

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

September 16, 2016

Merlin didn’t bother with breakfast. When it came to meals nowadays, he rarely did. Plus, he was still uneasy from the previous night - his stomach unsettling even at the thought of the woman. Doing the mental calculations, he had come up with the tough realisation that he’d either have to skimp on his mum’s pain meds, or skimp on groceries.

To Merlin, the answer had been obvious, and immediate. Nevertheless, as he slipped on his dress shoes and grabbed his tie (which he would get around to tying on the train to Le Chateau), he couldn’t help but feel a tad bit guilty. Obviously, it wasn’t as though he was  _ trying _ to hide his lack of consumption from his mum – yet he did, anyway. Hunith wouldn’t understand if she found out. She would refuse her pills, maybe even her meals, until Merlin was forced to go to drastic measures, going in debt because they couldn’t afford both groceries and chemo but Hunith would  _ insist _ on both –

Merlin sighed, running  pale fingers through unruly locks, shoving his suit jacket on as he hurried for the door. 

Hunith would worry. And Merlin couldn’t bring himself to give her body any more stress.

Merlin just barely made it to Le Chateau in time for his morning shift – and even then, Guinevere had had to comb back his hair with her fingers and straighten out his backwards tie. As the warlock began to dole out plates and take orders – and, within the first ten minutes also manage to drop two plates and spill a thin white sauce on a particularly blue-in-the-face patron (who looked as though he were here for a hit instead of the sautéed clams) – it became sinkingly apparent that it was the beginning of a  _ very _ long day.

As Merlin leaned over the chipped sink at the back of the restaurant, trying to wipe off the remains of the red wine that a certain displeased customer had thrown on him in a fit of rage, a weariness began to permeate throughout his being. More and more lately, he was finding himself drifting in and out of thought – consumed with the unrealistic dream of someday leaving. After all, Albion was becoming increasingly unbearable magic-wise, and the danger of organised crime was becoming a real threat.

But even as Merlin allowed himself a moment of solace as he imagined a different country, different laws, and different fears, he knew it would never happen. He would never leave. He’d been born into this repressed, crushing reality, and he couldn’t very well claw his way out of the tangle of laws and expectations and inhibitions. After all, he had Hunith to care for, he had jobs to uphold, he had people to help, and the warlock doubted how much freedom even a place such as Brazil, with their lax magic laws and growing middle class, would really grant him.

The clatter of dishes being hastily thrown into the kitchen’s industrial sink brought the waiter back to the present.

“Merlin! What the hell happened?” It was his manager, Thompson. Before the waiter could respond, the middle aged man shook his head, continuing, “You know what, I don’t care. I had to comp that man his meal – which is coming out of your pay, mind you – and I’m bloody well  _ pissed  _ at you.”

Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but Thompson was having none of it. “I said what I said, and what I said is that I don’t give a bloody  _ damn  _ what happened. This restaurant has an appearance to uphold, and this is the third time this week you’ve had an  _ incident _ . Now if you know what’s good for you, then you'll give your tickets to Gwen and scrub these dishes like they’re your mum’s good china. Though of course one of these plates costs more than your whole china cabinet – so scratch that. Scrub these like they’re your damn  _ life-line _ . And don’t break anymore! You’re on thin ice as it is.”

And with that, Thompson turned on his heels and stomped out of the kitchen.

Merlin blinked for a moment before regaining himself, and looking at the stack of dirty dishes.

With a sigh, the warlock gave up on trying to get the splatters of red out of his shirt front, and instead moved to hike up his sleeves.

It was going to be a long day.

 

* * *

 

_ The little things – that’s what got to Arthur the most. The slight brush of their shoulders, or the twining of their fingers in a fleeting embrace. The way Merlin would lean into the older man as though Arthur somehow could somehow shield and shelter him from even the cruelest of gales. _

_ Arthur didn’t have the heart to lead the younger man to believe any different. So instead, he tried to live up to his lover’s expectations – to be a better man if only for Merlin. _

_ For Merlin. _

_ It was the little things that Arthur had never known to be so important, so expressive. So  _ loving _. _

_ The way Merlin would melt into a kiss, his body slotting itself into shape with Arthur’s. How he would almost always pull away with a giggle, grinning like an idiot. Like Arthur had just hung the moon and stars for him. Like he  _ loved _ Arthur. Because he  _ did _ love Arthur. _

_ And gods, what a novel feeling to have – to feel loved. To be touched and caressed and appreciated. His father had never valued displays of emotion. Even nannies were scorned for hugs, pats, underserved praise. In a sense, it had left Arthur deprived and starved for affection. _

_ And so, like a starving man, once presented with the feast that was Merlin, he couldn’t help but eat past his fill, soaking in every last bit of the other man’s affection that he could.  _

_ And so, day by day, hour by hour, Merlin began to eat away at the shell that was Arthur Pendragon in turn. _

 

* * *

 

It was two in the morning and the Armory was bustling with life. It wasn’t uncommon for the Knights of Camelot to train at odd hours of the day, and this night (or more specifically  _ morning _ ) was no different. In Arthur’s absence, the men were practicing various forms of combat (except for K and Percival, who had taken it upon themselves to having a shoot off ‘to test the newest shipment’) – and gossiping.

What? Just because they were part of Albion’s largest organised criminal network didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy some quality sippin’ and bitchin’ (as Gwaine had so eloquently dubbed it).

Galahad swung a hard left at said snarky knight, managing to hit the somewhat preoccupied man and receiving a satisfying yelp.

“Oi! Watch yourself! I thought it was Boers’ turn to get the knickers beat off of ‘im!” Gwaine said, cradling his hand in an only partially mocking manner.

Galahad just snorted, while Boers, who was nursing a suspiciously  _ new _ black eye, muttered, “Coulda just asked, and I would’ve gladly taken them off for you.”

Galahad looked as though he were going to reply to this, hefting his fake weapon, but was cut off.

“That’s enough picking on poor old Boers, Gal,” Bedivere said, rolling his shoulders as he picked up his own blunt sword. The man had always been intimidating, though his most recent stint in prison seemed to cement the burly knight’s imposing figure.

“It’s not my fault Boers doesn’t know how to block his left,” Galahad replied, unfazed even as the larger began to move towards him, sword twirling expertly in his hand.

The pair squared off, circling each other on the blue matted floor.

Gwaine gave an encouraging hoot from the sideline, wiping sweat from his brow with an old towel. Leon raised a skeptical brow at the other man, though wisely kept silent.

As the two men began to trade blows, Boers took the opportunity to limp over to where Leon and Gwaine were standing on the sideline.

“Someday, mate,” Gwaine said, smirking a bit at the sour look on Boers’ face.

Leon snorted humorlessly. “Don’t give a starving man false hope. Galahad doesn’t seem too keen on Boers… No offence, of course.”

“None taken,” Boers muttered.

“Eh, I just think he needs some more time. Big burly shell like that – it takes some crackin’.” Gwaine then leaned over and gave Boers a none-too-gentle slap on the back.

The bruised knight merely glared, muttering something or another none too kindly under his breath.

The trio was silent for a bit, watching the two men before them fight – both panting with exertion by now.

Gwaine was the first to break his gaze. “What’s up with princess, anyway?”

“Huh?” Boers said, while Leon made a face.

Lucky for Leon, Gwaine hadn’t noticed the other man’s downright incriminating look, and instead continued talking.

“I mean, it’s not like Arthur has actually changed, but he’s just been…” The knight seemed at a loss for words.

“… _ nicer _ ?” He finished, running a hand through his hair.

Boers seemed to mull this over, a look of contemplation crossing his features. Leon was silent.

Gwaine’s eyes narrowed. “You know something.”

Leon raised his eyebrows comically. “Me?”

“You noticed it, didn’t ya? And what’s more, you know why, don’t you?” Leon grimaced at this. Gwaine, for all the effort he put into the act of being a drunken fool (which, well, actually wasn’t all just an act), nevertheless was observant when he wanted to be. 

“I don’t know what you're talking about, Gwaine. Arthur seems the same as ever.”

Gwaine snorted, planning on getting every last detail out of the senior knight. But just as he moves to pry the information from the older man, there was a shout of triumph from the mat. Bedivere had Galahad pinned to the ground, blunt sword pressing into his chest.

When Gwaine looked away from the pair, who were now joking and heading towards the showers, Leon was gone.

“Oh, don’t think this is the end,” the knight muttered ominously. Boers gave him a moderately disinterested, moderately concerned look. Gwaine ignored it, instead heading to the changing room.

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

Early morning, September 17, 2016

That night Arthur was already at the diner, papers spread out in a juxtaposition of organised disorder, having taken residence at one of the booths next to the chilly windows by the time Merlin’s shift started. Kara had evidently already taken care of Arthur - a glass of water slowly melting to form a ring of condensation on the tabletop to his left.

Merlin quickly fixed a black coffee and walked over. Arthur’s face was in a book on finance. He didn’t look up as Merlin approached, instead just saying:

“I was beginning to wonder if you were too incompetent to show up to work, or just lazy.”

Merlin snorted at the weak jab, leaning over the mass of papers to grab a finished cup of coffee and easily switch it out for the new. “Or maybe my shift didn’t start yet. You do know some people have more than one job.”

Arthur looked up at this, unreadable eyes piercing Merlin from over the rim of reading glasses. Any form of interest that had been present in the quick glance dissolved as soon as Arthur spoke again. “Really. And who else would  _ possibly _ hire such an incompetent worker as yourself?”

“Pff.” Merlin rolled his eyes. “No place important – and for your information, you  _ ass _ , I am an  _ excellent  _ worker... I’ve managed to keep my other job at some posh place near the business district for over two years.”

Arthur glanced at Merlin again, smiling a bit, and – surprisingly enough – taking the insult in stride. “I have a flat around there.”

For some reason, Merlin’s heart skittered a bit. “Well then why bother coming all the way down here? Oh, please don’t tell me it’s just so you can bother the poor wait-staff!” Merlin bemoaned somewhat dramatically, grinning as Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself  _ Mer _ lin,” Arthur replied, putting down the book in order to reach over and take a forkful of a half finished slice of pie. “I come here for the pie.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow at this. “The pie?”

Arthur coloured a bit. “Yes,  _ Mer _ lin, the  _ pie _ . Isn’t that why you usually eat at certain places? Because you like the food there?”

“Well yes, I just figured  _ you _ wouldn’t  _ like _ the pie.”

Arthur took off his glasses and gave Merlin quite the skeptical look, drawling out his next words. “And why wouldn’t I like the pie?”

“Well mate,” Merlin said, enjoying himself a bit, “You don’t seem to like  _ me _ .”

“And what, pray tell, does  _ your _ special brand of stupid have to do with the  _ pie _ ?” the young Pendragon drawled.

“Well, for your information, my ‘special brand of stupid’  _ makes _ them,” Merlin huffed, rubbing a hand through his hair absentmindedly, dislodging a smear of flour that had somehow managed to dust it.

Arthur scoffed. “Really? So you actually have a use besides for causing headaches?”

“Oi – tread carefully, you don’t know what I could put in those!”

“No, no,  _ Mer _ lin, you’re absolutely right,” Arthur said sarcastically, rolling his eyes and slapping his finance book shut. “I should probably make you check them for poison.”

“I would be offended by that, if eating my pies wasn’t so damn enjoyable.” Merlin shot back.

Arthur gave the waiter another strange look, then said:

“So why  _ are _ you making pies in such a grungy little place?”

Merlin scoffed at the sudden, nonchalant display of masked concern, saying simply, “the bills won’t pay themselves.”

Arthur took a moment to look at the waiter, his eyes squinting as he analysed the man before him. Then, deciding he’d better not tread too heavily, the heir instead smoothly declared, “Well, you should open a shop. Your cooking would be much more appreciated, that way.”

Merlin scoffed at the idea that he’d ever be working somewhere else besides for run down diners and restaurants he’d never be able to afford, and instead turned to go wash the used coffee cup – decidedly ending the conversation.

It wasn’t until Merlin was cleaning up Arthur’s table, a few hours later, that the warlock found the crispy fifty pound note. Merlin gaped for a moment, not even sure what he was looking at for a moment. 

But then it all resolved, and the dawning realization that he was currently holding a larger bill than he had ever seen before - received as a  _ tip _ .

  
[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

September 18, 2016

“You left the wrong note.”

Arthur looked up from where he was reading a book for leisure,  _ One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest _ , that –surprisingly enough – Merlin had suggested. Said suggestee was standing behind the counter right in front of Arthur, holding a crisp fifty pound note.

Quickly dog-earing the page and careful to keep a blank expression, Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“I did?”

“Yeah,” Merlin said, putting down the note on the counter between them. “Your bill was less than six pounds. Even an inbred like  _ yourself _ can see that forty-four is  _ much _ too large a tip for that.”

Merlin felt a bit uneasy at that. Forty-five was a day’s paycheck.

Arthur pulled a face and made a flourish of pulling out his wallet. “Yes, of course Merlin. My  _ truest _ apologies for the mix up.”

Merlin snorted and rolled his eyes. Prat.

“I actually have to go now, though, so I hope this sufficiently covers  _ this _ tab, as well. Oh – and box up the rest of my pie, will you?” Arthur said, gesturing to his barely touched slice of chocolate mousse pie with the fifty note. Merlin snorted again but didn’t feel in the mood to argue. For a minute, he had actually thought Arthur had meant to leave the fifty. Though – of course he wouldn’t. Really, Merlin was putting too much faith in the man.

Anyway, Merlin was always rude. To be honest, he didn’t deserve much of anything tip-wise, yet Arthur always at  _ least _ tipped  _ fifty _ percent.

Shaking his head at his own thoughts, Merlin placed the boxed pie in front of Arthur, picking up the notes he’d left.

And then stared at it.

It was two fifty pound notes.

Arthur was oblivious to the way Merlin was staring at the money in his hand as though it were going to bite him; instead, the businessman was diplomatically putting the crumpled book into his immaculate briefcase.

“Arthur…” Merlin said.

“Hmm?” Arthur responded, efficiently clicking said briefcase shut.

“Why the  _ hell _ did you just give me a ninety pound tip?”

Arthur looked up at Merlin, then flashed a brilliant, shit-eating, breathtaking smile.

"Well, I  _ really _ like the pie.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s hands were shaking as he fumbled for his car keys. Which was absurd. All he’d done was leave a large tip. Why were his hands shaking? People shake when they get nerves. But Pendragons didn’t get  _ nerves _ .

Yet here Arthur was, having given up on opening the driver door, leaning against his BMW in a manner that was suspiciously close to an attempt to calm down. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Arthur looked down at his hands, realizing with a mild start that he had a white-knuckled death grip on the keys.

Looking up, Arthur tried to ground himself. Tried to think through things logically. That’s what he did, after all, whenever there was something awry. True, he had a passion that he’d been told could match Uther’s in its cold severity; yet unlike his father, Arthur tried to think through a situation. The aspects. The emotions.

Well, maybe not his own. But that was merely an indulgence Arthur had to give himself – after all, emotions weren’t exactly accepted in Uther’s household. Emotions were weakening, often muddling logic and destroying any moral compass.

Something that could very well get someone killed in his line business.

Arthur visibly hardened at this. The only reason he’d given Merlin, obnoxious, annoying, rude  _ Merlin _ a large tip was because he’d seen the man, on more than one occasion, pay out of pocket so that someone else could eat. That was it. It wasn’t because of any other reason, and most definitely not because Arthur was beginning to feel any form of emotion save for contempt for the other man. Anyway, how rude would that be, trying to bribe his way into Merlin’s heart. (Arthur readily ignored the fact that he had, in fact, been taught from a young age to throw money at all his problems to make him go away. It wasn’t like he could throw - would throw - money at Merlin’s heart.)

Arthur nodded to himself at this, his resolve growing enough for him to be able to make his way into the car.

After all, even if he did feel something for Merlin, the waiter could never be anything save for a liability.

 

* * *

 

_ Unknown date 2018 _

_ Merlin made it to the lift before he leaned over again, retching up more bile and gasping for air. He felt like he was drowning, and gods wasn’t that just the cherry on the fucked-up cake? Waking up in a morgue, wandering around starkers without seeing even the shadow of an orderly, drowning on land. _

_ Huddling further into the blanket and taking longer than he probably should’ve to focus his eyes on the clock, Merlin’s silent question of why he hadn’t come across anyone yet.  _

_ It was 3 AM.  _

_ Swallowing the sick taste of bile back, Merlin took a shaky breath. Steeling himself.  _

_ Then, nerves relieved, he pressed the button of the lift, intent on figuring out what in the bloody hell was going on.  _

_ A sinking feeling had him wondering if he really wanted to know. _

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

 

September 26, 2016

Merlin scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to will the weariness from his bones. The harsh lights of the waiting room cast the whole place in an eerie tone – painted in too sharp a contrast to give off any real warmth or comfort. 

Hunith had been doing wonderfully on this new experimental chemo. The cancer had been isolated, and the prospect of surgery to remove it - permanently - was becoming a real thing. 

Or, only, it had. But then she had collapsed, unexpectedly, when Merlin was in the middle of making dinner.

The doctor hadn’t been out since they’d taken Hunith back – having pushed Merlin out of the room after his mum’s checkup - which was meant to diagnose her fatigue - had taken an abrupt, unexpected turn for the worse.

_ Heart problems. An abnormality in the Right Atrium. Needs to be tested immediately. _

Merlin forced his breaths to come out at a normal rate, his hands balled into the threadbare fabric of his jeans. His knuckles were blanched white.

Sometimes, when it was early in the morning or late at night, after a particularly grueling shift, Merlin would think, imagine… dream. Go over his deepest regrets, darkest fears, most fleeting memories – exist in them and imagine a changed world, a shifted universe, a different time and different sequence of events. Sometimes Merlin would stay in university. Sometimes he would leave Albion and its growing despair and fear behind. Sometimes Merlin would cure Hunith with magic – having somehow, in his wildest fantasies, learnt how to use magic in order to heal.

Sometimes Merlin would imagine leaving, starting fresh and somewhere where his sheer existence wasn’t something becoming exceedingly close to illegal. But then the warlock would wretch himself from those dreams – guilt building at the thought of abandoning his mum.

Sometimes, in Merlin’s bleakest hours, he would envy his father, or William, and how they so easily left this earth. Left, leaving Merlin and his mum to pick up the pieces, trying to tape, glue and tie the shattered shards of their existence back together.

It was after those thoughts passed through the warlock’s mind that the overwhelming self hatred would set in. The guilt would be like a punch to the gut – after all, Merlin had no right to wish himself gone, to wish such heartbreak onto the others in his life.

Grimacing, Merlin forced himself away from such thoughts, back into the glaring light of the waiting room.

The pain was still too sharp. 

Instead, Merlin forced himself to think of his schedule for the week, what he was planning on buying for Gwen and Lance’s wedding – what Arthur might be doing right now.

_ Arthur _ . And there was another thing. Merlin would be lying to himself if he didn’t find the other man attractive. He would  _ also _ be lying to himself if he ever tried to consider himself in the other man’s league.

Merlin was suddenly pulled from his reveries as yet another nurse marched through the otherwise empty waiting room, his hopes falling even as they rose. She wasn’t here for him.

With a forlorn sigh, Merlin once again situated himself into his seat, knowing from experience that this would undoubtedly be a long wait. He wouldn’t be going to be able to make it to Le Chateau.

Grimacing, Merlin dug into his pocket in search of his phone. He would have to call in sick – an excuse that was quickly getting old, but nevertheless necessary.

Just as the warlock finished the call – with no small amount of chewing out from his manager – a nurse came out.

“Ealdor?” she said, her voice detached and professional.

Merlin shot up out of his seat, quickly crossing the room. “Yes? That’s me. Is she alright?” His face easily betrayed his overall anxiety. It seemed that his expression cracked the nurse’s harsh exterior, for her face softened.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ealdor. But it appears as though Hunith has had a stroke.”

And it was in that moment that Merlin could see, with the clarity of a man condemned, his world begin to crack and shatter.

* * *

  
  


Later, at the break of dawn, Merlin was forced to leave his mother, once again, alone in the hospital. After all, work stopped for no ailment. 

That night, after his shift at Dragonhouse, Merlin ripped off his plastic smile, raided the liquor cabinet, and tried to forget. It was cowardly – his parents had never raised their son to be so weak as to drink away his fears.

But the alternative would probably have been worse. So Merlin drank, drowning his fears and worries at the bottom of a bottle, and hoped to whatever gods were listening that his mum would be alright. That he wouldn’t lose the last string holding him here – because really, once Hunith was gone, what was left for Merlin in this gods-forsaken city? Hatred, scorn, fear of discovery and the innate, niggling sense that he was, somehow, someway a goddamn abomination. A freak of nature. That somewhere, something had gone wrong.

After all, no one was just  _ born _ with magic. Only  _ monsters _ came from magic.

And so, with such thoughts and fears rolling around in his already addled head, Merlin tipped back his glass.

 

[ ](http://s61.photobucket.com/user/saltyemrys/media/Divider%202_zps4bzivajs.png.html)

  
Early morning, September 27, 2016

The woman watched silently as Cenred rounded the table, his movements smooth and calculated. Approaching, the criminal stopped just short of invading the nymph’s space. He smirked at the way she was wary – untrusting – around him. Rightly so, though. Cenred was the first to admit he was a dangerous man – shameless, too.

He reached out, carding his fingers through her stiff, molded hair. The nymph stiffened visibly.

Cenred smirked. “Is it done?”

The woman took a shaky breath, nodding her head ever so slightly.

The criminal smirked again, knotting his fingers viciously in the nymph’s hair. Dragging her closer to him, Cenred hissed:

“I said, is it done?”

“Yes – yes sir!” she gasped, fear making her go lax in his grip.

“Good.” Cenred instantly shoved her back, getting up to leave even as she lay on the floor – too terrified to stand. “For your sake, I hope that hex bag works. I want Ealdor before any of those other bastards - especially Uther - get their hands on him. If that means his mother has to suffer, then so be it.”

The nymph merely nodded. 

“Oh, love, I hope this makes him call. Otherwise… well, it’s your arse on the line right now.” Cenred smirked, then, before pulling a cigarette and lighter from his pocket, already turning towards the door to leave. 

And then he was gone.

The woman sat there for a very long time.

Eventually, though, she left too.

* * *

  
_ The day had been unusually warm, even for summer. Sweat had beaded at the nape of Merlin’s neck, running down the curve of his spine to pool in the small of his back. Even in only his swim shorts the young warlock felt stifled – suppressed by an almost tangible humidity. _

_ Hunith had taken him to the beach, refusing to waste one of her rare days off, come hell or high water. Never mind the strong tide that day – making it impossible to wallow languidly in the shallows, nor the oppressive sun that beat and baked and burned the sand to a crisp – making sunbathing near impossible, let alone pleasurable. _

_ Balinor always did say Merlin got his stubbornness from his mother, though. And on that day, even Merlin agreed. Hunith had waded through the waters resolutely, then planted an umbrella and towel down in the sand and, with what must’ve been a true force of resolve, began to read a short novel. _

_ Merlin had been left to his own devices, and ended up getting stung by a jellyfish. Even that didn’t deter his mother, though. Who, after having the lifeguard rub an ointment on her son’s red-tinted shin, resolutely sat herself back down – beach-read in hand. _

_ When dusk finally descended, and Hunith dog-eared her place, Merlin couldn’t help but be overwhelmingly glad to leave. After all, the young boy had felt a sense of unease all day. A feeling that could’ve as easily been fact based as incidental. _

_ Later, Merlin would write off the feeling as a coincidence – after all, even in his youth Merlin was never much save a skeptic. _

_ Hunith, on the other hand, was a much more superstitious woman – borne of the old religious through and through. Even as Merlin had been compelled to leave, Hunith had felt compelled to stay. She would later blame fate for what transpired when the pair was away that day. Merlin would call it was well-planned hit. _

_ After all, when the pair had finally pulled up to their house, it had been to find police cars and emergency workers swarming, yellow tape crisscrossing their otherwise painfully familiar front yard. _

_ That morning had, unknowingly, been the last time Merlin ever saw his father. _

* * *

  
That morning, Merlin called in sick, to no little grief on his manager’s part. Gritting his teeth against the overpowering throbbing in his skull, he was at the hospital long before visiting hours began.

Hunith was conscious, but only just. Merlin had sat on the edge of her bed, holding her hand close to his chest while she faded in and out of sleep. 

It was dusk by the time a nurse came by and kicked him out. After all, visiting hours had been over for hours by then.

And so that was how the young warlock ended up at the park at the banks of the Avalon at such an unbecoming hour of the evening. The air was cold and crisp, burning his lungs even as he took deep breaths in an unconscious attempt to cleanse himself of the constraining atmosphere of the hospital. It was as he was wandering around the rusted swings and chipped picnic tables that Merlin found it.

Frowning, he reached into his pocket to retrieve the stray piece of paper. 

Realisation was quick to sweep his features as his turned the small, rectangular business card. He’d wholly forgotten it even existed, but as the numbers jumped from the surface in stark contrast the object suddenly felt not only real, but hefty.

Swallowing, Merlin turned the card once more. It didn’t change though, nor did it reveal anything further than that singular phone number.  He didn’t know what to expect – putting a spell on a business card would be pretty bloody stupid, after all.

After a moment longer of staring at the crisp cardstock, Merlin let out a breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Dropping his arm, the young warlock abruptly stowed the business card back in his pocket, glancing around him. Night had fallen by then, but the park was the same as ever – rusty, broken down and desolate. Children never played there anymore, and the benches were more often than not occupied by drunkards unable to make it home or addicts looking for somewhere to take a quick trip.

Tonight, though, there was only Merlin.

A shiver wracked the young man’s frame, bringing him back to reality. Fighting back a cough, (something that wasn’t quite a sickness, but nevertheless beginning to plague him), Merlin set his body in motion.  Looking at his watch, he noticed with an uncomfortable jolt that an hour had passed. 

Eyes going wide, Merlin sucked in a breath at the realisation that he was going to be late for work.

He broke out into a jog, the business card forgotten for the moment.

 

* * *

 

It was only that next day, just as the dawn was beginning to stain the sky light pinks and blues, that Merlin once again reached into his pocket – with intent, this time.

Nervously chewing on his lip as he briskly made the trek from Dragonhouse to the hospital, Merlin drew out his phone. He drew out the card as well, staring at the number for a moment as though this time – in the light of a new dawn – it would reveal its secrets. Predictably it didn’t, but Merlin seemed content.

Taking  a deep breath, Merlin exhaled for a beat more, then began to type. Another deep breath and then he was pressing the ‘call’ button. Bringing the phone up to his ear, it began to ring. On the third trill, someone picked up. There was a pause, then:

“Cenred speaking.”

 


	4. To give to me your times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thanks to Katie for actually talking to me about this fic and stuff... kinda was the kick in the butt I needed to update.

 

_October 2017_

 

_Merlin’s grin turned blinding when he opened the door, ushering Arthur into his small flat. The waiter’s good mood was contagious, and soon Arthur found himself feeling giddy and grinning in turn._

_“So…” Merlin said as he turned to stuff some last minute things into his pockets, leaving Arthur standing in the centre of the flat’s small entryway. Further off, Arthur could faintly make out a light, presumably coming from the telly in the family room._

_“So..?” Arthur mimicked, earning a playful glare from his date. Arthur grinned in turn, putting on an innocent face._

_“So, what’s the plan for tonight? You never did tell me,” Merlin pulled on a jacket, turning to scour the room for his wallet and phone._

_Arthur smirked at this. “Why in the world would I give away the surprise_ now _,_ Mer _lin?”_

_“Because I don’t know what to bring!”_

_“Mmm, I think just bringing yourself will be sufficient.”_

_Merlin gave an exasperated groan. “Always so difficult with you!”_

_Arthur merely chuckled._

_Rolling his eyes, Merlin shoved his newly unearthed wallet into his pocket, then hastily went to grab a scarf from the hall closet. Finally, after wrapping the brilliantly blue scarf around his neck, Merlin deemed himself ready. He said as much._

_“Hmm, are you sure you’re not a girl?” Arthur replied, a smirk growing on his face at the black look Merlin shot him._

_“Arthur, don’t make me hurt you.”_

_“Ooh, I feel threatened.”_

_“You should. Don’t you know, a little bit of fear is good for the body?” Merlin said matter-of-factly, taking Arthur’s hand in a comfortable grasp._

_Arthur chuckled at this, drawing Merlin further into his grasp and wrapping an arm around the younger man’s waist. Merlin grinned at him, leaning into the hug._

_The pair stayed like that for a moment._

_Finally, Merlin lifted his head from where he’d rested it on Arthur’s chest. “Alright, well my curiosity is killing me.”_

_Arthur broke out into a brilliant grin once more, placing a kiss on his lover’s cheek. “Shall we?”_

_“I believe we shall, Merlin giggled, linking arms with Arthur._

 

_It was only as the gaudy, flashing lights and distant shouts and laughter began to filter into Arthur’s car that Merlin realized exactly where they were going. With an incredulous grin, he turned to Arthur._

_“A carnival? Really?”_

_Even in the dim, flickering light of the carnival car park Arthur looked bashful. Defensively, he said:_

_“And if it is?”_

_Merlin just chuckled, muttering ‘hopeless romantic’ under his breath. Grin still in place, he turned back to look out the passenger window, pressing his face against the glass._

  


October 1, 2016

 

Arthur settled uneasily into the plush leather chair, an impassive mask on his face as he waited for Uther to look up from his work.

Finally, the older Pendragon leaned back, taking off his reading glasses in the process, and eyed his son with an unreadable expression.

 “I read your report on our sorcery division.” And that was Uther, always cutting straight to the point. Arthur had to admit that his report was – though objective – nevertheless concerning, having dismal predictions for the future state of Camelot.

 Arthur couldn’t help but think that it reflected his own bleak outlook on the future. He felt something dark and cold faintly tug at his chest, an uncomfortable emotion he wished only to forget and leave unrecognised. But then Uther was talking again, and Arthur was pulled from his reveries.

“- are old enough now that I trust your judgment when it comes to this organisation. Because of this, I have decided that we need a larger sorcerer-base to choose from.”

Arthur nodded, as though he had been listening to Uther’s whole statement, instead of just the last few words.

Therefore, I’m having some of my most trusted men putting a plan into play that will ensure Camelot’s future and prosperity for a long, long time.”

Now that got Arthur’s attention. Very carefully, he turned his full attention to Uther. “And what, sir, is this plan?”

Uther gave what could only be considered a self-satisfied smile – something slippery, sickening, and wholly out of place on Uther’s face. “Parliament is going to outlaw sorcery. It will force the sorcerers into our hands, bringing them to us in hoards. After all, what will tagged sorcerers do? They’ll come swarming to us, begging for us to change their identities and remove the bracelets, or else they’ll be dealt with by the government – killed, of course, so that Cenred’s men cannot come and snatch them up.”

At this, Uther sat back, reclining in a very un-Uther-like manner – pleased.

Arthur felt something heavy growing in the pit of his gut. He shifted, uncomfortable, in his seat. Uther was looking at him expectantly, and Arthur had to swallow the lump in his throat not once, but twice, in order to speak.

“Er – that.” He cleared his throat, shifting again. “That sounds brilliant, sir. How soon will this plan be enacted?”

Uther grinned at this – actually grinned, and Arthur couldn’t help but cringe inside.

“Why Arthur, it’s already in the works. By month’s end, the law will be proposed. By the end of the year, everything will be resolved.

“And Camelot… Camelot will prevail.”

Faintly, Arthur wondered if the lives that would surely be ruined, lost, by this new law were really worth it.

Thankfully, Uther dismissed him before he could linger too long on that thought.

  


_October 2017_

 

_Merlin laughed, leaning on Arthur at the same time as he dragged the larger man along behind him._

_“Merlin,” Arthur huffed out, grinning as his lightweight of a boyfriend gave his hand another tug. “Merlin, where the hell are we going?”_  

_Merlin, drunk as he was, just turned around and laughed._

_“You’ll see!” he said, a crooked grin evident even in the receding lights of the carnival. They played off his somewhat flushed face – the colour in itself doing wonders to make the waiter look more alive._

_“_ Merl _in,” Arthur said warningly, though nevertheless followed the younger man onto a darker, less travelled pier. Another, similar couple stumbled past, laughing loudly and grinning when Merlin – idiot that he was – gave them a large, worriless smile. Arthur shook his head, following the man before him as he was led to the edge of the Avalon._

  _The pier was evidently rotten and old, even in the darkness. The city and carnival was muffled and a gaudy glow from this perspective. In comparison, the Avalon was a sleek black void._

  _Merlin, seemingly pleased with himself in his somewhat drunken stupor, chose this moment to pull Arthur out of his wary assessment of their not-so-safe surroundings by plopping down on the decaying wood – dragging the other man down with him._

  _Arthur, in his own right, fell most unceremoniously down onto Merlin._

  _“Merlin!” Arthur yelped, quickly trying to keep himself from crushing the younger man that was now giggling under him. Arthur shot him a glare, only to be rewarded with arms around his neck and a sloppy kiss._

  _Suddenly their surroundings didn’t seem so bad at all._

_“Mmmph… Merlin – “_

  _“Shhhh…” Merlin whispered into Arthur’s lips, refusing to loosen his grasp even an inch. Arthur, though at first struggling, soon realised it was a lost cause and instead let nature (or, rather, Merlin) take its course. They kissed in silence for a while._

  _Ten minutes later, they came up for air._

_Merlin let out a huffed laugh, while Arthur – flustered and a little bit out of his wits – turned over so that the couple was lying side by side._

_“Mmmm, Arthur, look at the stars,” Merlin mumbled, his head finding its way onto his lover’s shoulder._

_Arthur snorted. “Merlin, you do realise it’s cloudy out.” Merlin gave a groan of a response, causing Arthur to roll his eyes and shuffle closer, putting an arm around the warlock’s shoulder.  “Anyway there’s too much light pollution out here to see anything up there.” He gave a playful tug on deep black locks, failing to resist the temptation to card his fingers through the silky hairs._

_Merlin’s face, cast in shadows as it was, pouted._

_“Well… There. Up there!” Merlin’s face lit up as he pointed towards the sky. “There is a plane!”_

_Arthur snorted. “Yes, Merlin, that’s very astute of you.”_

_Merlin, in his somewhat inebriated state, snuggled closer to the larger man next to him, giving him a big grin and sigh of content. He hadn’t noticed the sarcasm in his lover’s voice._

_Arthur didn’t have the heart to point it out._

_Instead, he soaked in the warmth, the touch, the contact, the feeling of companionship._

_They sat in content peace. Arthur let the pleasant buzz of his own slight intoxication take the edge away from the night, let it blur the colours of the carnival and distant downtown and, yes, plane above into one lovely portrait. After a while, Merlin’s breathing evened out, and Arthur assumed the younger man was asleep._

_“Y’know there was a book. It was about a guy who flew in planes.”_

_Evidently, not. Arthur’s fingers paused in Merlin’s hair, their meditative rhythm interrupted._

_“Mmm? Yeah?”_

_“Yeah. He didn’t want to.” The light played across Merlin’s features. His eyes were still closed, his head was still on Arthur’s shoulder – yet a frown marred his face._

_“Oh? Then why’d he fly in them?”_

_Merlin’s frown deepened. “Well, he was in the army, you see.”_

_“Yes…”_

_“…and he flew in planes. He was a bombardier...”_

_“But… he didn’t like it.” Arthur finished, not quite understanding Merlin’s train of thought, yet nevertheless too content to object._

_Merlin made of a noise of agreement, snuggling his face closer to Arthur’s neck. “No,” he concurred. “He hated planes.”_

_Arthur frowned. “…Then why did he fly in them?”_

_“Because he had to.”_

_“Why did he have to?” Arthur said, lifting his head up in confusion to look at Merlin. His eyes were still closed, peaceful._

_“Because,” Merlin said, as though Arthur were being particularly daft. “He was a coward.”_

_Arthur’s frown deepened. “Well that doesn’t seem like a very interesting book.”_

_“Mmmm. It’s a classic.”_

_“Well,” Arthur said, his fingers resuming their caresses of Merlin’s hair. “How does it end?”_

_The younger man smiled at this, his flushed face dazzling in the low light, eyes blown wide by alcohol and something else._

_“That,” he said, “you have to find out for yourself.”_

_And with that, the couple fell into a comfortable silence, only broken by the distant sounds of the city and carnival, and the closer, softer lapping of the river’s edge._

_Merlin soon fell into an apparent sleep, his soft breath coming out evenly upon Arthur’s neck. Arthur, though, was not so docile. His mind, fuzzy as it was, was running in circles, wondering about planes and bombardiers and possible endings – unsettled by an unrecognisable aspect of Merlin’s drunken story._

_It wouldn’t be until months later that he’d be able to put his finger on why._

 

Early morning, October 2, 2016

 

By the time that Arthur got back to his flat, blood flecking his clothing from his most recent ‘business venture’, the young Pendragon was ready to just crawl into bed and forget everything. Yet there were papers to go over, documents to sign, emails to send. After all, even though everyone who was anyone knew exactly what Pendragon Inc actually was, the mobsters still needed to keep up appearances. Therefore, Arthur was put in charge of overseeing the stock investments, over-the-table loans and various sub-companies that Pendragon Inc had their grubby fingers in.

Arthur’s eyes began to blur, though, the page becoming a jumble of letters and figures. It was when he had read one line ten times and still didn’t know what the words were that the heir decided to give up, and go to bed.

Sleep, though, seemed to elude him.  


_“Please, no –“ The man’s pleading was cut off by another hard hit to the gut. Gwaine’s lips were drawn even as he pulled the man back up from where he’d hunched forward._

_A whimper of pain emitted from his swelling lips._

_Arthur withheld a grimace, his face schooling into the sharp look that echoed of Uther._

_“You haven’t been paying your loans back, Daweson. You knew well enough what you were getting yourself into when you came to my… organisation.”_

_The man was crying now, and Arthur had to look away._

_“I’m so sorry – gods above – I, just, I had it – I had all my money placed at Cedric’s place, but then my guy lost –“ The man, Daweson, was rambling now, his words coming out choppy and desperate._

_Arthur sighed. “You blew your money on gambling. Illegal gambling.”_

_The miserable figure merely nodded his head in defeated confirmation._

_“Well, maybe next time you’ll think before you go to_ Cedric’s _.” The young Pendragon spit out the word. After all, Cedric’s was renowned for its illegal sorcerer fights._

_Fights to the death._

_Arthur withheld another sigh, instead rubbing his eyes, exhausted. After a moment, he made a motion, bringing K out from the shadows. “K, if you would be so kind…” He gestured to the man before him._

_K only nodded, drawing out one of the many knives that he always kept on his person._

_Arthur forced himself to stand there, watching, as his knight enforced Camelot’s law. He forced himself to not feel anything, to not feel sympathy, to merely watch as the man was maimed._

_He didn’t even notice the blood spattering his shirt until Lance had pointed it out in the car._

 

 _Suddenly Arthur was younger, much younger. Younger and infinitely more naïve._  

_He was in the basement of Pendragon Tower. Uther was there, his stern gaze fixed on Arthur, as was his council._

_The weight of the gun in his hand was familiar. This time, though, the pressure was unwanted, the coldness permeating into Arthur’s whole being. He could feel the eyes on him as he held the gun, willing his palm to not shake._

_It was aimed at the kid before him._

_He was a couple years younger than Arthur, who himself had only just begun his awkward teenage years._

_Only a week ago, Leon had shown him (embarrassed and not a little bit grateful) how to shave properly._

_Yet now here he was, all eyes on him, staring into the eyes of the child he was supposed to kill._

_‘It builds character.’ Uther had said, grimly handing the gun to his son._

_The kid hadn’t done anything. This was retribution for his father’s debt. A loan gone bad and one too many shitty gambles at one of Camelot’s underground clubs._

_But as Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and put pressure on the trigger, he couldn’t help but find himself not thinking about the death that was about to happen, or the eyes on his back and the blood that would soon be marring his skin. Instead he could only think that yes – this is all a father’s transaction, enacted through the puppets that are their children._

_Like a goddamn play, it all is._

_And then the shot resounded through the room, and Arthur’s mind went blank – all musing and philosophical hypocrisy flying out the window._

_Because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because now he had blood on his hands._

 

Noon, October 2, 2016

 

Merlin bit his bottom lip, feeling his world becoming infinitely more uncomfortable.

Cenred King.

As in King Industries.

Cenred King, CEO of King Industries, renowned for his ability to slip through the fingers of the law, and _evidently_ also the employer of _sorcerers_.

 _That’s_ who the woman had given Merlin the _personal mobile number_ of.

Something didn’t feel right, and Merlin couldn’t help but be nauseous even as he changed out of his work clothes.

He had a meeting with the man in less than an hour.

But even if there was something fishy about this whole thing – which he couldn’t lie, there was – he _needed_ the money. Hunith was still in the hospital; recovering, yes, but still not healthy. The stroke had set back her chemo, and the emergency treatment would add even more costs to the already terrifying bill.

Merlin swallowed past the lump in his throat, looking at himself in the mirror.

The man who stared back was unrecognizable. Taunt, drawn face, eyes that looked to have seen years past his actual age. His eyes averted, unable to hold his own gaze.

This was dangerous, yes; even stupid. But it was well known across Albion what happened to debtors – people who had defaulted on loans, or maybe were thrown into the medical systems without insurance. If they didn’t pay, then their life became hell. Jail time and a marred record effectively inhibited any unlucky bloke with a faulty loan from _ever_ getting employment, insurance (if said bloke was even lucky enough to _qualify_ ), even accepted into uni.

Some, desperate and cornered, would turn to the city’s gangs and ‘organizations’ for loans – with insane interest – in hopes of being able to avoid the public record of debt. But even then, the risks were high; if the loan went bad, wasn’t paid off, the mobsters would take matters into their own hands.

The lucky ones got off with a beating, maybe losing a finger or two.

The less lucky wound up washing up on the banks of the Avalon.

If you didn’t have the money, then you were screwed. Doors closed, slamming shut – damning you to a life of poverty and struggle.

When Balinor died, Merlin had accepted with ease that things would change. But when Hunith fell ill, he hadn’t realised exactly how many sacrifices he would be forced to make.

Not to say he wouldn’t make them again in a heartbeat – but…

Merlin sighed, nervously twisting the shirt he was holding, fingers shaking a bit. If only the cards had been dealt differently. If only he was allowed to fold, ask for a reshuffle, even leave the damn table.

 But that just wasn’t how it worked, was it?

So instead, the waiter effectively shut down that line of thought, brushing it to the back of his mind. Throwing on the shirt and grabbing his jacket, Merlin moved to leave his flat.

After all, he wasn’t so stupid as to let King know where he lived. Instead, he’d sent the crime lord’s car to meet him at a local park.

When he walked up to the desolate place – void of all forms of life even at midday – a sleek black BMW was already in the parking lot.

Waiting.

He could still back out, turn around, act like he never called, that he’d passed the number off to someone else –

But then the window was rolling down, and a petite girl with a pretty face and stern look was ushering him over, and Merlin was getting in, being told that King didn’t like to wait.

And it was in that moment, as he sat rigidly in the back of an expensive car, that Merlin realised he’d just fallen down the rabbit hole.

Gods knew if he would be able to climb back out.

  
  


The sorcerer sitting next to him in the backseat – because it was obvious to Merlin now that she was something of the sort – pulled out some papers, and a small container. Nimble fingers quickly packed the joint, sealing it with a quick roll and lick. Merlin watched her, his feelings of uneasiness seeping deeper into his stomach at her blatant disregard for the law.

Merlin didn't have anything against drugs except that they could reveal his true nature. If the warlock didn't accidentally blow out a wall in his altered state, then the possibility of a trip to the slammer - and the inevitable magical screening that would ensue - would.

Generally, Merlin stayed away from anything that could so easily condemn him.

Eyeing the girl, Merlin watched warily as she lit the joint.

A pale hand held the burning stub out.

"Here. Take a hit. You're going to need it."

Merlin sucked in a breath, not sure what to do. "I... Umm..."

The girl cocked a delicate eyebrow, amused. "You strike me as a mummy's boy. Well I doubt mum knows about this," she gestured to their surroundings. "And I doubt that she'll find out about this." The sorcerer waved the burning joint a bit.

"I - I don't really think it'll... My..." Merlin swallowed. It was too close for comfort, the sorcerer was too accurate.

Snorting, she took another puff. "Your hot gold? Really, kid, don't get your knickers in a knot. The only thing this is going to do is dislodge that stick up your ass long enough for you to not get killed or _worse_ by King."

Merlin swallowed the knot in his throat. Then, his hand shaking a bit, he took the offered joint.

He choked, gagged on the hot smoke entering his lungs. Merlin’s never been one to smoke – he’d tried a cigarette that Will had offered him, once, only to find his lungs closing up at the first inhalation. 

As Merlin choked, he began to wish he had remembered how much he didn’t like having a lungful of smoke.

Freya, the sorcerer and evidently also Cenred’s most recent assistant, merely smiled a sad, soft smile and turned to look out the window.

Eventually, the smoke cleared, and Merlin was able to breathe again.

 

_It had been an old nightmare – one that never seemed to leave the warlock. He dreamt he was choking, smoke clogging the air and constricting his lungs. Sometimes he was hot, other times cold, other times he didn’t feel at all._

_It didn’t matter, though, because he was burning. Always burning._

  _Eventually the dream – or was it a realisation? – that he was slowly suffocating became overwhelming, and Merlin stopped turning to sleep as a form of solace._

  _Indeed, Merlin had nearly stopped sleeping altogether._

  _It was better that way._

 

Cenred King was a grandiose man. He had money, and he liked to show it. His office in King Manor (where he did most of his business) was richly furnished and dark.

As his personal assistant brought Merlin into the room, he couldn’t help but gape for a moment. After all, he had only seen knick-knacks of this caliber (if they could even be called such) in museums.

Intimidating. That’s what King’s game was. He reclined leisurely in his plush, leather chair, feet up on what was probably an ancient family heirloom of a desk, eating an apple. 

When Merlin walked into the room, Cenred didn’t sit up. Didn’t perk with attention. Instead he kept eating his apple, taking his time, showing exactly how much power he already had over Merlin, being able to waste his time so flippantly. Never mind the fact that Merlin wasn’t even on his payroll yet.

And that – that is what made Merlin shudder. What would being on King’s payroll entail? Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to be cowed by the other man’s obvious displays of dominance.

“So,” King, having finally finished his apple, looked up at Merlin. “You’re Merlin?”

“Yes.”

King raised a brow, and Merlin corrected himself. “Sir. Yes sir.”

Cenred smirked, dropping his feet from their perch and leaning forward in his chair. “Ah, fast learner, then?” He didn’t wait for Merlin to respond. “Well, have a seat. No wait, I rather prefer you standing.”

And then the man had the gall to leer at the warlock. Merlin scowled in return, only earning a laugh from the mobster.

“Oh, and a feisty one, too. _Delicious_.”

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with my employment, _sir_ ,” Merlin bit out the title, making it sound anything but respectful.

“Mmm, yes, about that.” Cenred quirked his head to the side, ignoring Merlin’s offensive tone. “I’m not sure if we at King Industries can take you on right now.”

Merlin felt the floor suddenly drop out. After all, he had made the decision, no matter how terrifying the prospect… and now he needed to follow through with it. The option of being denied a job had never crossed his mind. His mouth dropped open.“I – but –“

“Don’t interrupt, kid. It’s rude,” Cenred snapped, standing.

No position? That would mean he’d have to go somewhere else, get a loan, do something, _fast_ –

Cenred moved around his table, a shark circling its prey. “I need to know how well you work. If I should _keep_ you.”

“I’m a good worker. Fast learner, like you said,” Merlin said, not daring to move as the older man invaded his space.

“Mmm, I’m sure you are…” Merlin could smell his expensive perfume, the faint hint of leather and spices. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. I want to know what I’m getting into, if I can afford to spend on it. I want to sample your… what are the kids calling it these days?” King backed up a bit, leering, and Merlin let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Oh yes, ‘hot gold’.”

“Magic. You want to… test my magic?” Merlin said, his eyes meeting Cenred’s. The man nodded, dipping his head forward.

  
“Precisely. And for that, I will need you to go through a sort of… tournament.” The leer was replaced with a smirk, and Merlin was beginning to realise he really, really, _really_ didn’t like this man. 

But the image of Hunith, unconscious and so pale on her hospital bed, stopped Merlin from just straight-up turning around and leaving. After all, it was obvious that King was yanking his chain - and getting much enjoyment from it.

Instead, Merlin swallowed his pride. “And what do I do in this tournament?”

 Cenred cocked his head to the side, “Why, what you do _best_ , Merlin.” Then he leaned in, whispering, _“Work your magic._ ”

 Merlin couldn’t withhold a shiver at the hungry look in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t a sexual or physical hunger - but something else. Yearning for something toxic, dangerous. But King - he was hooked, addicted. Merlin could see it plain, written on his face - that gnawing thirst for _power_.

 Cenred seemed to know what Merlin saw and smiled again. He moved back, letting Merlin breathe, sitting once more behind his desk. “Mmm. I believe we shall have an absolutely peachy time working together, Ealdor. Absolutely peachy.” Merlin shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll be having my PA get you in contact with the man who will… test you.”

 “Wait – that’s it?” Merlin’s brow furrowed, confused.

 Cenred tsked. “Manners, Merlin. Manners.” Merlin averted his eyes.

 Cenred saw the movement, and smirked. “Much better.”

 “Now since you seem so anxious to know – the man’s name is Edwin. He will take you to this tournament. Figure out if you’re worth my time. Don’t worry about those hospital bills, though – Edwin pays well for your services.

 “Now get out. I’m a very busy man, Merlin, and you’re officially wasting my time.”

 Merlin was too stunned by the abrupt dismissal, the possibility of a job, of using his magic, to do much else besides let himself be ushered out of the room, shoved back into the BMW, dropped off outside his flat.

 

Indeed, Merlin was too stunned to realise he had never mentioned where his flat was – nor that he needed the money for _hospital bills_.

 All he could think about was exactly how deep he was getting himself.

  


_Unknown date, 2018_

 

_Merlin pressed ‘G’, assuming it meant ground floor. As the lift doors slid shut, he got the faint notion that he was once again in that wretched body chamber, surrounded by corpses on all sides. The metal walls were too similar, even though the space of the lift was much larger and well lit._

_Merlin took a couple shaky breaths, quelling his anxiety - irrational and unfound. He knew it was unreasonable, that in a mere moment the doors would open again, and that if he needed to, he could magic the lift to safety._

_But… But Merlin didn't know what happened, he didn't know how he got here, he didn't even know what day it was (and faintly, he realised he probably wouldn’t like the answer)._  

 _Taking another breath, Merlin squared his sheet-covered shoulders, sticking out his chin as a faint ding rang through the lift, and the doors once again slid open._  


 

Evening, October 5, 2016

 

Gwaine liked to pride himself in his ability to identify when, exactly, people were banging. He considered it an art, and as all artists are wont to do, strove to perfect it.

This considered, he liked to think he was the first one to notice that it appeared as though Arthur, was indeed, _finally_ getting some. (Though in all actuality, every last knight - even Bedivere, fresh out of the slammer, had noticed the recent change in the young Pendragon. Though of course, there were multiple hypotheses revolving around why – drugs, a promotion and poetry all rivaling explanations among the knights for the sudden burst of pleasantness coming from their leader. They were wrong, of course - all of them.)

Because Gwaine had a way of _knowing_ . The reason Arthur Pendragon, stony-faced son of _Uther_ , was smiling more, laughing and joking and acting more like a man and less like a _puppet_ , was because he was finally, _finally_ letting go _and gettin’ some_.

The knight smiled at the thought. Wee little Arthur all grown up and chasing pussy.

The smile stayed on the knight’s face for a whole of  ten seconds before said ‘little Arthur’ sent a kick straight to Gwaine’s gut, effectively sending the man _into_ the mat.

“Gwaine! You’re getting rusty down there. Must’ve drunken out your last few brain cells, yeah?” 

The knight in question snorted at the weak insult, taking the proffered hand and returning a grin as Arthur hoisted him back into a standing position.

“Sorry Arthur.” Gwaine kept grinning even as Arthur began to chug his water bottle. “I just got busy wondering about who exactly you’ve been banging lately.”

And in all honesty, Gwaine probably should’ve not been so blunt with his knowledge so soon. After all, Arthur had only just been showing the symptoms of a bedded man for all of a week.

But as it was, the knight had been blunt, and hadn’t ducked, and therefore was now wearing the better part of the mouthful of water Arthur had been drinking.

Sputtering, Arthur gave Gwaine a truly distressed look. “What in the _hell_ are you talking about?!”

“Don’t worry, Arthur. All’s forgiven. Just a description of what type of bird has managed to catch your attention will do.” Then, to show that he was indifferent to his new, sopping apparel, Gwaine wiped at his face, then slung a friendly arm over Arthur’s shoulders.

“Jesus – Gwaine, what the hell? Not that you’re privy to my private life, but I haven’t been ‘caught’ by anyone. Now I would appreciate it if you’d _shut up_.” And with that, Arthur shoved Gwaine off, leaving him pinwheeling his arms to try and stay upright.

But Gwaine was never one to be deterred, let alone deterred by _Arthur_ , so therefore he broke into a jog next to the quickly retreating Pendragon. “C’mon, mate. We all can see something’s up. Just tell me about her and I’ll give you some advice!”

“Gwaine,” Arthur ground out, warningly.

“C’mon!” Gwaine bemoaned, “You can’t keep a bloke in the dark!”

Arthur hissed out a breath. “I can and I will –“

“So you’re saying you _are_ fucking someone!” Gwaine accused triumphantly, latching onto Arthur’s slip-up.

“And _you’ve_ just earned yourself the title of designated training dummy for the next two weeks. Now shove off,” Arthur said with a gritted-teeth finality that had even Gwaine stopping his badgering.

Gwaine groaned. Training dummy duty. But it was worth it. _Now it was just a matter of time._

The knight chuckled to himself, stripping off his shirt as he prepared to shower.

 

 

“Really, Merlin?! And where am I supposed to sit?”

Merlin responded by snorting and rolling his eyes, stretching his toes against the arm of the couch in what could only be considered a mockingly, challenging manner.

“Hmph. You can sit with your fiancé. This couch is only for cool people."

Gwen gave a gasp of mock offense, putting her hands on her hips. "Merlin! Really! Just because I'm getting married doesn't mean I'm not _cool_. And anyway Lancelot is working tonight.”

Merlin raised his eyebrows skeptically, not bothering to take his eyes off the telly. "The fact that you're trying to justify being cool is just confirming my suspicions."

"C'mon, you giant _oaf_. Move the feet." Gwen flicked the hole in the sock on one of Merlin’s feet as emphasis. Merlin made a whine of protest, but nevertheless drew his legs in, scrunching up and rearranging his body into a coiled mass of bony limbs and blankets.

Gwen plopped down on the freshly vacated seat, grabbing a fleece.

Merlin gave her a look.

"No, Merlin," Gwen squinted. Merlin in turn jutted out his bottom lip, pulling his best pleading face.

Gwen gave an exasperated huff, but nevertheless relented - motioning for the warlock to prop his feet on her lap.

Merlin made a happy noise, once again stretching his full length on the couch, joints popping in a way that made Gwen mildly concerned. Popcorn was quickly balanced precariously on a pair of bony knees, and a few grandiose clicks later, movie night, a tradition which had been severely neglected of late due to Hunith’s touch-and-go health and Guinevere’s engagement, officially began.

 

Halfway through the show and Gwen paused the whole affair, claiming deprivation while showing the other waiter the few kernels left at the bottom of their popcorn bucket. With a forlorn sigh, Merlin valiantly gone to replenish their stores.

It was just as Merlin was (once again) situating himself on the couch, Gwen, and a pile of blankets, fresh bucket of popcorn in hand, that the front door slammed.

"Guinevere! I'm home!"

A man - young and of a dark, vaguely Spanish complexion - walked into the flat.

And immediately frowned, his eyes trained on where Merlin's feet were laying, in a very _familiar_ manner, on Gwen's lap.

"Guinevere, you didn't mention company..?"

Gwen, who up until that moment had failed to notice anything suspicious about the pair's situation, now shot up as if burnt as her eyes followed Lance's.

"I - yes, Lance!" She blushed a bit. "This is Merlin. Remember, I mentioned him before. We work together.”

Merlin sat up, and with a quick flick of his wrist, threw the blankets aside. “So you’re the fiancé!” He said cheerily, beaming as he moved to put out his hand.

Lancelot eyed the waiter warily.

“Lance, right? I've heard a lot,” the waiter gave a chuckle, even as his hand hung between the pair, Lancelot eying it. “Gwen talks about you all the time. Really, she scarcely ever shuts up when we get on the topic." Merlin bit his lip, wondering idly if he should pull his hand back.

But then the knight took it, shaking curtly and with a vice like grip. Merlin had to bite his lip, hard, to keep from yelping – all too happy to break the embrace.

Lancelot's eyes traveled back to Gwen. Uncertain.

And that was when the realisation dawned upon Merlin.

 

"Oh! _Oh_ . Oh, gods!" Merlin laughed, much to Lance and Gwen’s mutual confusion. "Don't worry, Gwen is _just_ a friend. Really, even if I didn't prefer it up the -"

"Merlin!" Gwen covered her face, blushing a bit.

Merlin grinned, and continued. "Even if I wasn't a major poof, I doubt the lovely Guinevere could be deterred from you. I mean just look at the way she moons over you -"

"Merlin!" Gwen light-heartedly slapped the back of the other waiter's head, eliciting a chuckle and mock cry from the assaulted.

Lancelot visibly relaxed at this, nodding a bit.

"Really, I am sorry for giving the wrong impression," Merlin nodded. "I'm not sure if Gwen told you, but we have movie night every Tuesday. It's just a little thing... But I just popped a new bowl of popcorn, and well really, I have no doubt that Gwen would be more than happy to have you join." Merlin gave a large grin at this, and Lance couldn’t even help but smile in return.

“Alright. I could go for some popcorn.”

  
  


October 14, 2016

 

Arthur was a bit early today, having left The Armory relatively early; Gwaine was being insufferable of late, having taken it to be his duty to eke out - through whatever method possible - the reason behind Arthur rather abrupt change of emotion.

Arthur, personally, doubted that his emotions were changing whatsoever. Gwaine just had a way with recognising when people were in relationships.

Or, well, in Arthur's case, something pathetically close to a schoolyard- _crush_ -ship.

With a sigh, Arthur shook his head in self pity and looked up to see the object of his affections. Merlin, hands fluent and hair powdered with flour, was grinning as he took an order from a rather grungy fellow. His smile grew with every word, and the older man before him's shell began to physically _melt_.

Merlin gestured when he became excited, and was doing just that at the moment. Thin fingers periodically running through black locks, solving the mystery of how the hell flour had gotten _there_.

All in all, he looked gorgeous.

Really, Arthur was the heir to the Pendragon Empire - both legal and otherwise - and right now, he was contemplating some twink of a night time waiter.

How did that even _happen_?

Arthur sighed, opening stats for his (legitimate) job, having decided that since he was awake, he might as well get some work done.

By the time Merlin made his way over to Arthur's regular booth, the man in question was about ready to claw his eyes out for want of something interesting to do.

"Hello, handsome," Merlin said, putting a black coffee in front of Arthur's giant mess of papers with a wink.

Arthur snorted, look over the rim of his reading glasses at the (l _ightly-floured_ ) man in front of him. "Really, Merlin, don't be such a _girl_."

It was Merlin's turn to snort and roll his eyes. "That's the last time I try and brighten your morning, you giant prat." Reaching into his apron, thin fingers expertly pulled out and flipped open the small order pad. "Now what else can I get you, _hunky_?"

Arthur had to repress his sudden urge to beam at everything in sight, his heart rate suddenly very much alive, and instead gave the waiter before him a signature Pendragon scowl. After all, Merlin didn't _actually_ think he was hunky or handsome, he was just being a little shithead.

Merlin returned Arthur's burning look with an absolutely flooring grin. "Looks like somebody has a stick up their arse this fine morning. Though of course, what else is new? How about I just surprise you, _love_?” he said, giving an absolutely shit-eating grin in reference to what form of dessert (which Arthur, if not having been in the business and known better, would've suspected to be laced with crack) Arthur would be having today.

Before Arthur could even register his offense, though, Merlin was off flitting about the diner once more, landing at different tables with a wide, lovely smile, talking and laughing his way towards the front register.

This time, Arthur couldn't even suppress his grin. It wasn't everyday someone talked to a Pendragon like that. Though of course, Arthur was learning pretty fast that Merlin wasn't just _someone_.

  


_May 2017_

 

_Arthur opened his eyes begrudgingly, taking in the lucid scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting from somewhere deep within the small flat._

_Taking a look around the room, he had to admit it looked as though a twister had hit, what with the way clothing was hanging from the most inconvenient of places, various spaces on dressers and tables cleared (aka had the contents thrown to the floor) from where he’d shoved Merlin up onto them._

_A grin spread across Arthur’s face as he remembered exactly what had happened the night previous._

_With a groan and pleasant stretch, Arthur sat up in bed. A second glance around the room concluded that Merlin, indeed, was nowhere to be found. If the clatter of dishes and soft sizzling that was coming through the cracked hallway door was anything to go by, though, his lover was probably in the kitchen._

_Arthur’s stomach rumbled at the mere thought of Merlin committing the act of cooking._

_With a soft grin that was becoming more and more common as his time spent with Merlin went on, Arthur shoved the twisted covers aside and cast around the bedroom floor – finally grabbing a pair of sweats that would just have to do. They were a bit loose, and he wasn’t really sure if they were his or Merlin’s, but if Arthur’s day off was supposed to go anyway near how he planned, then it wouldn’t really matter – they’d be right back on the floor within the hour. So with all the haste of a starving man, Arthur made his way to the kitchen – following the alluring aroma and promise of food._

_For all the growing fondness he felt for the man before him, Arthur couldn’t help but be disgusted by how much of a morning person Merlin was. The man in question was busy dancing around the kitchen – in Arthur’s boxers, he might add – undoubtedly creating some elaborate, morning-after meal fit for a king._

_“Arthur!” Merlin yelped as the young Pendragon snaked his arms around Merlin’s bare waist. “Oh my god – don’t sneak up on me like that!”_

_Arthur chuckled, nuzzling at the overgrown locks of black hair behind Merlin’s ear. “Good morning to you, too,” he mumbled into a soft, pale neck._

_If the way Merlin shivered was anything to go by, then Arthur might say his purposefully husky voice had worked._

_“Stop it, Arthur, I’m cooking!” Merlin protested, giggling a bit as Arthur purposefully tickled the sensitive stretch of skin behind the waiter’s ear. Arthur, though, merely tightened his already vice-like hold on his lover’s waist, smirking._

_“Oh really? I couldn’t actually tell,” he said dryly, nipping at Merlin’s neck._

_“Oh very funn- oi! Ey! Jesus, Arthur, you're going to make me burn the foo-fuck!”_

_Arthur smirked, unfazed by the cursing and writhing form in his arms, and instead smiled proudly at the bright purple mark forming where Merlin’s jaw met his neck._

_Merlin was grumbling something that sounded suspiciously like ‘prat’ as he whipped a couple more ingredients together with an expert hand._

_Arthur playfully rested his chin on Merlin’s shoulder. “Do you ever think about opening up your own place?” He blurted out suddenly._

_Merlin’s stirring stopped for a moment, reflecting the contemplative look that was almost certainly crossing his face._

_Finally, Merlin spoke:_

_“What do you mean?”_

_Arthur’s hold loosened, strong hands moving to delicate hips to rub soothing circles. “I mean, why work at Dragonhouse? Why be a waiter when you’re more than qualified to open up your own bakery, or diner, or whatever?”_

_Merlin had gone stiff in Arthur’s grasp, and after a moment turned around, placing delicate hands on strong shoulders. Merlin just looked at Arthur for a minute, eyes darting as though he were reading something from Arthur’s expression (never mind that Merlin’s own was illegible). Finally, he wrenched his eyes from Arthur’s, averting them to gaze at where his pale hands grasped Arthur’s shoulders._

  _Smoothing thin fingers over the lines of Arthur’s chest, Merlin finally spoke, his voice scarcely above a whisper._

 " _I don’t know.”_

  _It sounded unconvincing, even to Arthur._

  _Merlin evidently thought the same, because he took a sharp breath in and continued. “I mean, I do know. It’s because I don’t have the money. But, even when I was in uni...” Arthur perked up at this – Merlin never really opened up about his history. “I was going to be a doctor. Or, well, start with medicine then go from there...”_

  _Merlin grimaced at his own awkwardness. “It was complicated.”_

  _Arthur nodded solemnly, soaking in the smooth, tingling touch of his lover as well as this rare glimpse into his lover’s past. Merlin wasn’t very open about himself at the best of times, and even then he only spoke of the present – of his mother, his flat, Gaius, Gwen. The fact that he was so open about this new revelation – that he had dropped out of uni – only meant one thing: Arthur had struck a nerve._

  _Oh so delicately, so as to not startle Merlin (for once again he was wearing that far off expression) Arthur leaned in, placing a slow, careful kiss on soft lips._

  _Merlin, though, snapped out of whatever memory he had been in and kissed back, powerful and wanting, as though Arthur were an anchor in a raging storm. As though kissing Arthur was all it took to erase the bad, the horrible, the demons of Merlin’s past that, to this day, still haunted them._

  _And really, Arthur couldn’t blame him, because soon enough he was kissing his lover in kind._

 

October 16, 2016

 

Merlin was asleep when his phone rang, evening sunlight streaming through the blinds.

 The warlock groaned, groping around for the source of the offending noise. He was still half asleep when he flipped the cover – mumbling a quick, ‘hullo?’ – open.

 “Merlin Ealdor?”

 “Yeah?” Merlin’s eyes cracked open at this, confusion crinkling his brow.

 “I’m calling in regards to your upcoming... job interview.”

 And that had Merlin shooting up in bed, suddenly very much awake. “Job interview?” he said, a mixture of anxiety and apprehension making him a little bit breathless.

 “Yes. If I am correct, Cenred King recently talked to you.”

 “…yes?”

 “Well, Mr Ealdor, my name is Edwin Muirden, and I would like to make an arrangement to test… your abilities.”

 Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat, instead saying, “I’m listening.”

 

That evening, Merlin went to Dragonhouse, shoulders squared with an unusual level of tension.

 

 

 The sorcerer was sobbing, curled into himself as much as a chained man could. He was shivering – hell, Arthur was cold, and he was decked to the nines as usual – having been left with little more than his underwear in an abandoned basement for about a week.

Arthur didn’t let anything show as he watched the sorcerer.

Said object of his attentions was too far gone in his agony to notice the new addition to the room. Or even the fact that K and Percival had left a while back, taking all their ‘tools’ with them.

 With what could’ve been interpreted as a bored sigh (indeed, Arthur would’ve suspected it to be as such if he didn’t know better) the heir crossed the room in a few quick steps to squat in front the broken form.

“Look at me.”

 The sobs turned to snivels as a grimy hand moved, revealing a thin tear stained face.

 Arthur took a breath, looking away. A weight, unpleasant and curling, was beginning to grow in his stomach.

 “Do you know why you’re here?”

 A sniff, then a nod.

 “I – I didn’ mean no harm of it, I swear –“ The sorcerer began, small and desperate.

 “Shut up. You stole from us. Period.” Arthur schooled his face into a steady stare, the look stern and closed. The sorcerer visibly wilted under the gaze. Neither dared to speak.

 Then Arthur abruptly rose from his squat. His eyes still fixed on the shivering man before him.

 “You stole from Camelot, and can no longer be trusted. Your service is no longer required.”

 The sorcerer’s eyes widened even in their puffy, bruised state. “No, no, please, sir I swear I was only tryin’a feed ma kid! It’s been hard, so hard… I weren’t tryin’ to screw nobody, I just couldn’ take him goin’ to bed hungry no more…” The man’s words dissolved into sobs and hiccups.

 Arthur had frozen, staring at the prone, broken form before him. The unsteady weight in his stomach gave another lurch at the man’s words. For some ungodly reason, Merlin flashed in the heir’s mind. Merlin, smiling and grinning and handing out free meals to vagabonds and runaways. Merlin, whisking bloodied gang members into Dragonhouse’s backroom and returning thirty minutes later worn and strained – yet satisfied.

 Merlin.

 What the hell would _Merlin_ think of Arthur right now?

 The thought made Arthur feel unpleasantly cold, as though he’d just been dunked into an ice bath. He didn’t want to think of Merlin but…

 His hands shook. He shoved them violently into his suit pockets. Turning away from the splayed figure on the floor and knowing he would have hell to pay come dawn, Arthur Pendragon addressed his knights.

 “Give him back his clothes then let him go.” Leon gave Arthur a dubious look, similar to the one exchanged between K and Percival, but nevertheless nodded.

 Without turning around, he addressed the sorcerer. “Today is your lucky day, sorcerer. You’re free, for now. I best suggest you take your son and your meager savings and get the fuck off this island before someone with more influence decides to end your pitiful existence once and for all.”

 And with that, Arthur squared his shoulders and left the warehouse.

 

The drive to Dragonhouse was too long, and Arthur’s tie was too tight.

It was only when Arthur walked in and saw that breathtakingly gorgeous smile form on Merlin’s silly face at the sight of the young Pendragon that Arthur knew he had made the right decision.

It didn’t even matter that at dawn he would undoubtedly have hell to pay.

 

 

October 17, 2016

 

Sometimes, when it had been an especially long night and all the patrons were gone, Gaius would grab a couple of Dragonhouse’s mismatched, white cups and usher Merlin to sit with him.

It was in these small hours of the morning, just as night began to shift to day, that the older man would begin to speak over the rim of his steaming tea. His voice would be low and distant, as though reciting from a script – but his face, that is what would reveal the churning mass of emotions just beneath the surface. The retired physician would speak in generalities – of a time long gone when magic was far from persecuted; indeed it was held with great esteem. He would speak of the people, the lack of fear and suspicion, and of the peace. No crimelords. No corruption.

Merlin was always quiet when Gaius would being to speak, afraid that interrupting would bring an end to these sacred moments – these windows into the past. They were cherished things - bringing Merlin to the edge of his seat, grounding him outside of his turbulent, present life.

Ironically enough, it was during one of these times, when the diner was slow and the old physician was warmed from a cup of spiked coffee (a delicacy, as Gaius would winkingly call it), that Merlin revealed his most precious secret.

_Merlin decided, in that moment, that he was not getting paid enough for this shit. The waiter in question was currently staring down the barrel of a very much working, undoubtedly loaded glock. Never mind the fact that guns were still illegal in Albion. That didn’t particularly seem to bother the young man currently holding one of just mentioned illegal items too close to Merlin’s face for comfort._

_Granted, it was a foot away – but Merlin wasn’t picky when it came to how close guns were; after all, they did have a fairly large blast radius._

_The man was speaking, saying something about emptying out the cash drawer – Merlin’s wallet and watch, too – and what did they have around back behind the kitchen?_

_Gaius. Gaius’ living quarters. All of the old man’s possessions, too – his savings were shoved under the mattress. Gaius was old-fashioned in that way._

_“Nothing. Just storage,” Merlin had said, his throat clogging as the robber clicked the safety._

_“And what about the old guy? Is it just you tonight?”He was wearing a ski mask. A bloody ski mask, like in all those shitty movies that blurred together from a childhood spent indoors._

_Merlin shook his head, knowing very well Gaius was laying down for a bit during the lull between night and morning. “Not here. He’s not here.”_

_And the warlock had taken off his watch – his dead father’s – taken out his wallet that unfortunately contained his pay for the week at Le Chateau and then opened the drawer._

_Some money was more important than the consequences of being discovered using magic. Or at least, that’s what was going through Merlin’s mind just as he was handing the woefully short stacks over – and Gaius decided to swing open the backroom door._

_Of course nothing could bloody well go smoothly. Not even being robbed._

_It wasn’t even a registered action – a conscious decision – on Merlin’s part. One minute the whole building was filled with the resonating burst of a fired gun, the next minute Mr. Ski-Mask was flying through the window, and Gaius was staring dead-eye straight at a bullet._

_Merlin swallowed, letting the bullet drop from the air, the gold fade from his eyes._

_He could’ve melted into the floor right then and there, with the incredulous stare Gaius was giving him._

_And then it hit – Merlin would have to leave Albion, flee the country, take Hunith with him else fear for her safety; though his mum was in no state to move right now, fresh out of a surgery, needing heavy medication and chemo, which was why Merlin had taken the night shift at Dragonhouse anyway –_

_And he hadn’t even realised he was crying, silent tears trailing hot and accusingly down his cheeks – until his face was being pressed into Gaius’ shoulder, the old man holding Merlin in an embrace that, that –_

_Merlin had broken down then, so young and scared and full of relief._

_For the first time since Will’s death, Merlin had someone. Someone he could tell, someone he could trust._

_At the realisation, the Merlin sobbed even harder._

 

It was half past two when Arthur shoved open the diner door. It had been a long night, and Arthur wanted nothing more than to forget the most recent hit his father had had him lead. Kane was dead, as well as his second and third in command, and as far as Arthur was concerned, Uther had just declared all out war with King.

Arthur needed a fucking cup of coffee. 

Thankfully, the now-familiar smell of the building hit him, overpowered by the tell-tale waft of baked goods. Merlin, evidently, was in the kitchen. Arthur immediately relaxed. He had begun to think of The Dragonhouse as a sort of safe haven - the sole place where work and life didn’t meld.

Quite frankly, Arthur was absolutely relieved at this realization.

Merlin peeked out of the window between the front and back of the house and – seeing Arthur’s familiar shock of blond hair – called out a muffled “Be there in a minute!” before once more disappearing into the depths of the kitchen.

A moment later, there was the familiar sound of the oven door slamming.

Arthur didn’t really mind having to wait for his coffee. After all, Merlin’s baking took priority to – well, _anything_ , when Arthur was hungry. Or in a bad mood. Or – well, anything, really. It was just _that good._

So Arthur instead patiently went to his regular booth, sat on his regular side, and took off his suit jacket in a swift, practiced movement.

 Just as he was looking over the nearly memorised menu, the door opened again. Arthur didn’t bother looking up, though; too engrossed in trying to guess – by smell – what the hell that ridiculous waiter was baking.

 Well, Arthur didn’t look up until a body slid into the seat across from him, that is.

 “You know, I never really saw you as a diner-type, myself.”

 Arthur’s head wiped up sharply to glare at Gwaine, who was now sitting across from him.

 “What the hell, Gwaine? Did you follow me here?” Arthur said incredulously, slapping the menu shut with a bit more force than necessary.

 Gwaine merely grinned knowingly at Arthur’s defensive tone, reaching across the table to smoothly pluck the menu from his hands. “Really, mate, I just wanted to meet her.”

 Arthur’s brow furrowed. He was a bit too dumbfound at the sheer audacity of being _followed_ to put up much of an argument with his knight, so instead Arthur just said, “Meet who?”

 “You _know_ ,” Gwaine winked. “The bird who’s got you head over tits.”

  _Ah. That_ . Arthur clamped his mouth shut at this, immediately going red with a mix of indignation, embarrassment, and anger. How in the hell did _Gwaine_ –

 “How did I figure it out?” Gwaine said, leaning back and enjoying the flustered state of the usually-stoic man across from him a bit too much. “Really, mate, it’s not that hard to figure out _somebody’s_ gotten your fancy. I mean seriously – I didn’t even know you were _capable_ of being so happy, let alone _genial_ .” The knight shook his head. “I was really buggered as to who it could possibly be for a while there. I mean, where in the world would _you_ be meeting women? Well, that was until I realised that you’d been frequenting _here_ quite a bit. You see,” Gwaine grinned again. “The only place you’ve been that’s – well – _out_ of place is here. On your evidently _nightly_ visits.”

 “I – Gwaine – leave. Now. You have no right to be in my personal life.” Arthur was flustered, but not enough so to not realise exactly _how_ _much_ of a disaster Gwaine meeting Merlin would be.

 “Oh come off it, princess. We’ve know each other too long for you to pull that card.” Gwaine gave Arthur an eye roll then leaned in, confidingly. “Now, who _is_ the lovely lady? Does she work here?”

 “I –“ Arthur tried to speak, not really sure how to possibly phrase the next bit of the conversation without coming off as a complete poof (never mind the fact that he _was_ ).

 Luckily for him, (or – well – _unluckily_ ) Merlin chose just that moment to come out of the kitchen, black coffee in hand, flour smeared down his front and smudged on his face in a way that was so _adorable_ that it made Arthur momentarily forget to breathe.

 Gwaine frowned as Merlin approached, saying, “Does he know this lass or –“

 Then the knight caught the look on Arthur’s face.

 “- or – or – …. oh.”

 “Shut up,” Arthur all but growled, immediately snapping out of his Merlin-induced haze.

 Gwaine looked as though he was trying very hard to keep a straight face.

 “Gwaine…” Arthur said warningly, just as Merlin reached their booth. The server’s smile quickly turned to confusion, then something more unreadable, as his eyes flickered from Arthur to Gwaine.

 Gwaine beamed, charmingly flipping his hair. “Morning, mate!”

 Arthur glared daggers across the table – their intensity increasing (if that was even possible) when Merlin smiled back, running long, pale fingers through powdery hair.

 “Morning –“ The waiter frowned, a fleeting thing, as he pulled out a notepad. “What can I get for you, um…?”

 “Gwaine, doll. The name’s Gwaine,” Gwaine said, smiling, all teeth, leaning forward and chewing on a stray straw seductively. “I’m one of Arthur’s good mates.” The knight added, almost as an afterthought.

 Merlin’s eyebrows shot up at this. “Good mate, eh? Well that really is a feat, innit?” The waiter snorted dramatically. “And here I was thinking Prince Prat over there was too socially inept to even understand the concept of a ‘mate’, let alone _find_ one!”

 Gwaine gave a loud laugh at this, throwing his head back, while Arthur made an uncharacteristic noise of protest.

 “I am not a prat!” Arthur flushed indignantly.

 “Oh, so sorry _sire_. Shall I say an arse, then?”

 “That’s even worse!”

 “Dofus?”

 “Shut up, _Mer_ lin.”

 “Clotpole?”

 “What, no!”

 “Dollophead, then?”

 “I – what? Now you're just making shit up. No, _Merlin_ – just shut up and give me my coffee already!” Arthur was, if Merlin was correct, actually _blushing_ . Nevertheless, the waiter decided against commenting on the spreading pink on his regular’s cheeks (indeed, from the look Gwaine was giving him, Arthur would probably hear more than enough about it as is). Instead, he turned to the leering man and took his order. Then, with the finality of a waiter on a mission, the warlock spun on his heels and marched off to fetch another coffee (black, _love_ ) and the peach pie that, now that he thought about it, was probably burning in the oven…

 Gwaine’s eyes lingered on Merlin’s retreating form, trailing down the waiter’s lean body.

 Arthur was really beginning to want to punch him.

 Finally, the knight’s eyes found their way to meet with Arthur’s burning gaze, and a smirk began to grow.

 Arthur growled. “Gwaine, I swear to god, if you _dare_ speak –“

 The knight ignored the threat; instead interrupting the blond’s current sputtering.  “Y’know I really didn’t peg you as a poof, but _I_ sure as hell would turn for someone with an ass like his.”

 Gwaine then donned a mock contemplative look, eyeing Merlin’s admittedly attractive figure once more as the waiter again approached their table. Arthur, the knight noticed with not a small level of sadistic glee, was beginning to look perpetually red.

 Merlin raised his brows at the pair, but wisely kept quiet as he served them their pie, placing a second cup of coffee in front of Gwaine.

 The knight wiggled his eyes, winking at Arthur in a manner that was promptly rewarded with the expression equivalent to _a gun to the head._

 Gwaine ignored the obvious death threat and instead turned to the waiter and began – of all things – _small talk_ . Arthur wasn’t particularly in the mood for it, though, and therefore glared into his hot coffee while he _wasn’t_ listening to the other pair in an attempt to learn more about the enigma that was Merlin.

 The tell-tale ring of the door opening and signaling another patron coming in couldn’t come soon enough.

 

“I _like_ him!” Gwaine said, grinning. They were walking back across the street to where Arthur had parked his less conspicuous BMW.

 Gwaine, evidently, had taken a cab.

Arthur felt a bit sorry for the poor cabbie that would’ve had to deal with the ensuing car-chase that almost certainly occurred.

“No, Arthur I mean it. I _really_ like him,” Gwaine continued, giving a devious grin and rubbing his hands together. “He isn’t afraid to put your giant ego in its place!”

Arthur rolled his eyes, unlocking the car and swiftly getting in.

“Really, though,” Gwaine continued, not at all deterred by the lack of feedback from Arthur. “How did someone as blunt and rude and I mean, _human_ manage to grab your black little heart?”

“Gwaine, enough already,” Arthur said, pulling a stern look. Gwaine merely snickered.

Arthur turned to concentrate on driving through the empty, rundown streets of lower Albion. Now that Gwaine knew, it wouldn’t be long until more people found out…

Arthur grimaced. This would get very bad, very fast…

“I won’t tell, mate.”

Arthur glanced over at his suddenly somber companion. He, evidently, had been thinking along the same lines as Arthur.

“Really, _you_ not telling?” Arthur scoffed a bit at this. He somehow doubted Gwaine would be able to keep a secret to himself even if his life depended on it.

But despite Arthur’s jibe, Gwaine stayed serious. “Arthur, I’m serious. I like Merlin. I think he’s good for you.”

Arthur quickly lost his smirk.

“Mate, he’s done you a world of good, even if you haven’t noticed. The knights have, though. I mean, Bedivere thought it was because you’d finally gotten a hobby, and Ivain had his money on  aerobics – but that’s not the point The point is, we’re all happy to see you happy. And I’m telling you that you have my word – and undoubtedly the knight’s, too - if you ever confide in them - that nobody will find out about this… not on my watch.”

Arthur was somewhat at a loss for words. Gwaine was scarcely ever this serious, let alone towards _him_.

“Plus, I would never want somebody like Merlin to get caught up in all this bullshit.”

And with that, Gwaine went back into silence, leaving a slowly forming weight to pool in Arthur’s stomach.

No, Merlin should never get caught up in this.

 

_May 2017_

 

_"You know, I'm beginning to wonder if I really am as deathly bland as Gwaine claims - after all, you appear to prefer the company of fish to my own."_

_Merlin snorted, though didn't bother disengaging his face from where it was currently all but smashed up against the glass. The aquarium lights, Arthur noticed, cast Merlin's form into ethereal shadows. The blue reflections danced across the younger man's pale skin, creating a strange, inhuman glow - gaudy yet not sickly as it chased itself eternally across taunt skin._

_That, combined with the obvious childish joy that the (grown) man was displaying left the young Pendragon all but stricken._

_Really, Arthur was pretty sure he'd forgotten to breathe for a moment there._

_Merlin, though, never faltered. Instead, he held a broad, brilliant grin as he watched the various exotic fish pass the wall of glass. Every now and again he would point out a particularly interesting specimen to his date - never mind the fact that Arthur was standing a couple yards back, and Merlin didn't even bother turning to properly direct his attention._

_Arthur could only smile, content, at Merlin's vivacious love for life. It was as though he were placed in a dream - in a world that consisted of Merlin and the ocean - and in all honesty, Arthur never wanted to leave._

_Yet all too soon, Arthur's phone rang, and he was drawn away from this fantasy world, this beautiful land of soft edges and innocent intrigue. Too soon the harsh reality of class and stature and birth crashed back onto the heir's shoulders like the earth unto Atlas' back._

_So with a silent sigh, Arthur walked away from where Merlin was still enchanted by another realm, and thumbed across his phone's screen._

_"Pendragon."_


	5. Yet as the storm grows stronger,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowzer, another update! Haha, don't kill me, please...

 

_ Unknown date, 2018 _

 

_ It was warmer on the ground level. Not nearly warm enough to be flouncing about in nothing save a sheet, but Merlin had to make-do.  _

_ Nearly all the lights were off. Merlin’s footfalls echoed off the walls of what appeared to be an inactive hospital - maybe a private practice. Merlin wasn’t sure, there weren’t any of the normal insignia on the walls of the place; no plaques, no sheets of paper penned to cork-boards, not even a pen at the front desk with a logo.  _

_ It was eerie.  _

_ Merlin snorted, the sound echoing loudly around the waiting room he was in. Of course it was eerie. He had just popped out of a bloody morgue, after all.  _

_ Merlin barked another laugh, this one edging on hysterical, as he stopped and leaned against a wall. Fatigued. He was shaking with the sound soon enough, unable to stop it even if he wanted. Faintly, Merlin wondered if he was going insane, or possibly already there. After all, no matter how hard he strained. He couldn’t remember - well,  _ anything _.  _

_ Fuck.  _

_ Merlin sobered then at the nagging knowledge that there was a blackout in his memory. There had to be.  _

_ Biting his lip, uncertain of what to do next, Merlin stood in front of the door marked “Exit”. _

  
  


* * *

 

October 21, 2016

 

Merlin thrummed his fingers aimlessly, impatiently, on the edge of the industrial sink at Le Chateau. When the obnoxious knocking of his own fingers became too much, he ceased his pattering - instead choosing to gnaw his bottom lip until it became red and raw.

When Merlin drew blood from the soft flesh of his inner lip, he stopped once more – instead choosing to pull out his old flip phone, check for the millionth time for an imaginary message, call – anything.

Though there was nothing. 

Merlin resorted to pacing. After all, he had been put on dish duty for the third time this week due to his… unfortunate series of mishaps on the main floor. But of course, Merlin had finished all the morning’s dishes with a  rather magical ease and swiftness – leaving him now to, unfortunately, wait.

And think.

And doubt.

Merlin took to nibbling on his nails, eyes darting hither and thither as he scanned the rest of the kitchen for any form of  _ unusual  _ activity. Possibly men in dark coats, faces as stern and calloused as the witchfinder of his youth, swinging out badges and guns, searching the restaurant for  _ the  _ unregistered sorcerer.

A moment, two, and the only excitement was another order being bused out to the front of the house. 

Merlin let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

He was being silly. Ever since Merlin had scheduled the meeting with the man who King had claimed would ‘test’ him – magically – he had been on edge. But tonight, nine sharp, was the night Merlin was supposed to follow through –

And dammit if that wasn’t making him downright  _ jumpy _ . But Merlin couldn’t help it, couldn’t change it, couldn’t even back out of it – not with the soft, vulnerable form of his mother, fresh out of urgent care and out like a light in her bed, lingered in his mind.

It’s just – he’d never been so open, so  _ evident  _ in his magical activities. Sure, Merlin couldn’t help but work a little magic here and there throughout the day (after all, it was as natural as breathing to he – and nearly as essential), but letting someone know, someone with the power to turn him in –?

Merlin roughly bit his bottom lip, flinching as he reopened the small scrap there, and stopped that train of thought – his own form of vulnerability – before it became too pervasive.

No.  _ Think of something else. _

And wouldn’t it just be his luck that a brilliant grin – so rare, so breath-taking – and a flash of well tailored suit and immaculate, golden hair (like a bloody crown, really) shoved its way into Merlin’s mind.

_ Arthur _ .

Merlin felt his heart involuntarily skip a beat. Arthur. His regular. The cheeky businessman who ‘stayed for the pie’ (yeah bloody right), and was nearly as reliable as clockwork. Always popping in when he was ‘round back and cooking, always ordering a black coffee and some extraneous dessert, always obnoxious, cold, rude, saturnine even – but endearing, witty, and quick to a smirk.

Merlin sighed, feeling that same aching within his chest that had been carefully growing over the past few weeks – no, that wasn’t right… more like months.

So  _ maybe  _ Merlin had a bit of a crush. Whatever it was, though, he could never act upon it. He was the waiter, Arthur was the customer – and to be perfectly honest, Merlin had such a shit-storm for a life right now that he couldn’t very well drag someone else into.

Never mind that said ‘someone else’ was probably not even  _ gay _ .

Merlin sighed again, getting ready to dive back into another round of mournful musings just as Gwen came bursting through the swinging doors near the front of the kitchen, apologetic look on her face and –

An unmentionably large stack of dishes balanced precariously on her arms.

Merlin sighed, this time for a different reason, and moved forward to help Guinevere get the dishes from the doorway to the sink without any unneeded accidents.

Soon enough, all thoughts of sickly-pale mothers and golden crowned customers were shoved from Merlin’s mind.

  
  


“Look Arthur, you have to stop sometime.” 

Arthur sighed, looking at his second in command from over an immense, rather threatening, stack of paperwork. 

“You and I both know I can’t do that. Uther is expecting me to expand our magical division, and I can’t do that unless I  _ get  _ more sparkers,” Arthur sighed out, taking off his reading glasses and absentmindedly leaning back in his chair. Leon mirrored his sigh before finally relaxing his stance and sitting down across from Arthur. 

“Well at least let me help. I know you want to be the main recruiter, but honestly your plate is already full with the fallout from Kane’s execution.”

Arthur grimaced. Of course. Kane had been shot by one of Arthur’s men, as per Uther’s continual insistence, a few days ago, and now Cenred was all but out for blood. Uther had ordered it, sure. But now  _ Arthur  _ was left with the immense mess to clean up. 

“Are you saying I should assign someone else to go to Cedric’s?” Arthur finally said. 

“I am saying you need to lighten your load. You haven’t been sleeping hardly at all lately,” Leon persisted, leaning forward. “Look, send me. You and I both know that I am more than capable of finding subjects. Especially now that Sigan has been updating me in your stead.”

And even though he didn’t like it - didn’t like making his men go and do things he was more than able to - Leon had a point. Arthur aside, the only other men so well informed on hot gold were Sigan and Leon. Arthur didn’t trust Sigan as far as he could throw him, though. So that left Leon. 

And well… The idea of a nap, or even a whole night of sleep, was becoming more and more appeal the longer Leon talked. 

“Alright,” Arthur said finally, rubbing at his eyes in a vain attempt to clear his mind. “Alright, you go to Cedric’s tonight, bring me back a report on the best candidates. We can go from there.”

Leon nodded, giving Arthur a sympathetic smile. “You know, you can take all this paperwork home. Put on some sweats and turn on the telly while you go over this.”

“Are you trying to get me to take the day off?” Arthur snorted.

“I’m trying to get you some rest, mate,” Leon corrected, giving Arthur a pointed look. 

And, well… Maybe Leon had a point. 

Arthur sighed, nodding. 

“Alright.”

  
  
  


All too soon, nine PM rolled around.

A sleek car pulled up to the corner on which Merlin had been waiting, the window rolling down just far enough for him to hear the words ‘well get in, then’ floating out.

So he did. He got into the car, only looking for a moment too long at the scarred man in the seat next to him before resigning himself to what would probably be another awkward, boring car ride.

...hopefully.

Merlin didn’t bother asking for a name, realising the man - if anything like any of the mobsters who found their way into the backroom of Dragonhouse - would only reveal such personal information on his own terms, no less. Instead, Merlin settled back into the plush, dark leather seat and watched the city lights stream by.

“I see you learn fast, Ealdor.” The scarred man was smirking at Merlin. Well okay, let him. Merlin wasn’t new to this, he wasn’t stupid. After all, he’d spent the last few years in lower Albion.

“And what does that mean?” Merlin quietly countered, jutting out his chin in defiance.

“It means,  _ kid _ , that you know to not ask meddlesome questions.” There was a twinkle of something, mirth maybe, in the scarred man’s eyes. “I won’t forget such a good trait when discussing the events to come with King.” And then the man smiled – an ugly thing – and put a scarred hand out. “My name is Edwin, and we have much to do. Now come.”

Even as Merlin shook the proffered limb, the car was already slowing down.

Merlin was unceremoniously shuffled out of the expensive vehicle, herded towards a squat, unimpressive building that appeared to house a bar, and a long line.

“What does a bar have to do with my ‘job interview’?” Merlin asked, frowning even as he let himself be ushered past the entrance and into the dark alley to the side of the building.

Edwin hummed in a wholly obnoxious manner, choosing to grab Merlin by the elbow and drag him down a flight of stairs – and past a couple of what could only be called bodyguards – into the basement of the building.

Well just peachy.

But then the basement door was being opened, and there was quite a bit of a crowd in here, after all, and Merlin was a bit too busy gaping at the fact that there was so much  _ room  _ down here to notice how the other man was prodding him inside.

If Merlin didn’t know better, he would suspect this place to be under some form of magical enchantment. Though of course, he _ did  _ know better. It probably  _ was _ . The cold shock of evident sorcery – so unnaturally obvious as it ran down Merlin’s spine – was what brought him back to the present.

“You never answered my question, Edwin. What am I doing here?” At this, Merlin yanked his arm from the other man’s grasp.

“Oh, you’ll see.” Edwin smiled at this, a knowing smirk stretching his scarred skin in a sickly, taunt way. The man eyed Merlin for a moment, then called over a man wearing a shockingly striped uniform. Murmuring, the older sorcerer pressed some notes into the worker’s palm. The cash quickly disappeared into that frankly garish uniform, and was replaced by a slip.

Edwin’s smile grew as he approached Merlin once more.

“What was that?” Merlin asked, his brow scrunching in confusion; a look that was becoming more and more common on his face as the night progressed.

“Hmm? Oh that? Oh, nothing. Just placing a bet.”

And well, Merlin didn’t really know how to feel about that. “…A bet..?”

Edwin nodded, unfazed. “I believe your fight will be most profitable. Ah, but this is not the time to dwell and lurk, now is it? Come, now,” an arm was flung over the warlock’s bony shoulders, “we must get you prepared!”

“Wait, back up a moment there - a fight?”

“Yes, yes a fight. That is what Cenred wants to see, after all – how well you fare in battle.” Edwin smiled that sickly smile again. “After all, he’s not just going to hire you to conjure flowers and butterflies, is he?”

And no, Merlin supposed he wasn’t. But still, he hadn’t really been prepared for a – a  _ fight _ . Against another sorcerer. 

Oh gods.

The older sorcerer steered Merlin towards an unmarked door, weaving through the crowd with ease. Merlin followed without any resistance, mainly because he was trying to shove down the panic that was clogging his throat and threatening to suffocate him.

“Now, the rules are simple,” Edwin murmured, keeping his firm grip on Merlin’s boney shoulder. “Hot gold only. No weapons, talismans or other forms of magical (or otherwise) protection. Every participant gets paid – but let’s just say it should be high on your priorities to be the last one standing.”

The pair was in a less crowded area now, having gone through the doorway and down a series of corridors. Edwin brought them to a stop, nodding towards a faded plastic chair which was situated across from a door marked, simply, ‘Office’.

“Alright, you wait here. I’ll get you all registered.”

Merlin merely nodded, trying not to think about what was going to happen next, and – after a moment’s hesitation – took a seat.

Edwin disappeared behind the door.

Every now and again there would be traffic through the hallway. More often than not, the people in question would look worse for wear.

After the third man – supported between what he could only guess to be medics – was dragged down the corridor, Merlin decided he didn’t have a good feeling about this whole affair.

But nevertheless, before Merlin could build up enough gall to leave, Edwin came out of the door, grinning. 

Merlin stood up.

“Alright! Everything is in order. I suspect you are a bit anxious, but fear not. I have full trust in your abilities.” At that, Edwin winked, and Merlin had to suppress a shudder. He was so used to the man being stoic and reserved.

An excited Edwin was just plain, well… creepy.

Nevertheless, Merlin let Edwin lead him further down the hallway until it eventually dead-ended into a door – an impressive monolith of a thing that seemed to be emitting an offbeat  _ hum _ . Faintly, Merlin realised that the buzz he was hearing was cheering – muted and warped.

It sent a chill down Merlin’s back.

But then before he could back out (though with the vice-like grip that had once again wrapped itself around his shoulders, Merlin questioned if leaving would even have been an option) the door was grinding open and the blinding lights and full roar of the crowd were flooding in and, well, Merlin was suddenly swept up and pushed out.

He faintly heard Edwin yell, “Remember, Merlin – be the last one standing!” And then the door was closing shut, leaving him alone again.

Except, he wasn’t.

Turning around, Merlin could easily see that the room was immense. Probably approaching three stories tall, and twice as wide. The center of the floor was sunken – obviously some form of arena with walls at least three meters high, and stands further back. Stands that were, of current,  _ packed. _

Or at least as far as Merlin could tell – given the fact that he was, of current,  _ in _ the arena. 

Suddenly Merlin had a very intense feeling as though he would really rather  _ not _ be in the arena.

Faintly, Merlin realised that as he had been taking the whole scene in that an announcer had been speaking. The crowd was roaring though, and Merlin was finding it all a bit hard to hear. But then there was a pressure at his back, and Merlin was being shoved forward towards the center of the arena and – apparently, if the glitzy getup was anything to go by –  _ his opponent _ .

“- Begin!”

And really, as the watermelon-sized ball of lightning came shooting towards him, Merlin decided that he a.) finally understood the whole significance of ‘being the last one standing’ and b) was going to promptly and painfully murder Edwin upon surviving this.

 

* * *

 

 

The audience cheered as the new contestant stumbles out into the ring. Through the seemingly constant haze hanging in the air, Leon still managed to make out the man’s lean, unimpressive figure. Immediately, he pegged the new opponent as one of those desperate young sorcerers who needs the money, though undoubtedly wouldn’t last a round. The crowd sensed it too, and became louder, calling for blood.

With a forlorn sigh, Leon pushed himself off of the wall he had been leaning against, adjusting his position so he could better view the upcoming fight. It was a pity to watch, and probably going to be a waste of his time, but the young knight still needed to observe. 

After all, he wasn’t here for pleasure. Sorcerers fighting each other like dogs was never very appealing to Leon. Rather, he was on recruitment duty – something pretty essential to Camelot considering how fast their most recent sorcerers were getting killed. And quite frankly, ever since Uther had entrusted Arthur with the magic division, Leon was finding himself more often than not the one sent to scout.

That was one thing about Arthur – he always did value loyalty over all else – even when it came to sorcerers.

The knight shook his head again, a fond smile nudging at the edges of his lips. Arthur Pendragon was quite the piece of work. Amazing, when taking who exactly his father was into consideration. Having such a pure heart, and beautiful soul (Leon was sounding a bit like Lance, but he couldn’t help it – Arthur just inspired something within others), the older knight couldn’t help but want to protect him, guide him, yet also look to the younger man in times of great need.

A large cheer resounded through the room, and Leon was pulled from his musings just in time to see the beginnings of a particularly spectacular battle. Well now, maybe the lanky lad wasn’t just full of cheap tricks and desperation –

Leon leaned forward, watching with an unrecognisable glint in his eyes as the opposing sorcerer took the first step. Now this would be interesting.

 

* * *

  
  


Instinct took over. Merlin threw up a shield – golden and faintly luminescent – to block the ball of energy. The blast from the impact echoed even above the animalistic roar that came from the crowd, sending a shockwave of jarring energy down Merlin’s extended arm. Immediately, he pushed the shield forward, sending it straight towards the opponent.

The man across from him, clad in something extremely tight and highly reflective, jumped to the side – surprisingly nimble for his bulky size. Even before Merlin’s shield had dissipated fully against the arena wall, the man was incanting.

This time, a ball of fire materialised. Internally groaning, Merlin pulled up another shield. This collision was less powerful – yet he dropped the shield only a moment later, feeling drained. 

The opponent, detecting weakness, immediately began to send a volley of fireballs towards Merlin, who – with a yelp – brought up a chunk of earth, dripping chunks of rock and sand – to shield him. The heat crackled on impact, singeing the nearby walls as the fire was deflected.

_ Who fucking said this was a good idea for a job interview, anyway? _

Huffing out a breath, Merlin lifted the rock into the air, sending it straight towards his opponent. The other man just barely brought up a shield in time, but the impact of rock and raw power sent the older sorcerer reeling backwards – leaving an opening for Merlin.

With a mimicking twist of the wrist, Merlin opened the ground beneath the other man, sucking his form into the earth, until only his head was above ground.

It was just then that Merlin realised the crowd was cheering… shouting and jeering and, to Merlin’s growing horror, demanding he finish the other man off.

Merlin shook his head, backing up, suddenly feeling like he was on a whole new level of ‘in over his head’. He would  _ not  _ kill another human being. Not in cold blood, not for something as cheap as  _ entertainment _ !

Thankfully, somebody must’ve realised that Merlin was done, because a door leading to stairs and then the announcer’s booth opened. Relieved, scarcely able to comprehend what was happening, he mounted them.   
  


Arriving in the viewing box, Merlin was met by a very pleased Edwin. Merlin was about to wipe the smirk off the older sorcerer’s face until he realised exactly what the announcer was saying in the background.

“ – now will have to face off against a Wilddeoren!”

The crowd roared, deafening in their uniform call for blood. Merlin’s face paled and he whipped around, Edwin wholly forgotten as this new horror became increasingly clear. 

It was as though he were watching the whole thing play out from behind a sheet of frosted glass, or maybe through layers of water – pressing and distorting and holding him in place.

There was a second gate, opposite of where Merlin had entered. It opened now, it’s creaking audible even above the cheers of the onlookers. The sorcerer, meanwhile, was thrashing desperately, trying to look behind him, to see what fate would befall him.

“Stop…” Merlin said, breathily. The Wilddeoren, a hulking, monstrosity of a creature, began to enter the ring – poked and prodded from afar with long, electrified sticks.

“Stop!” Merlin whipped around, knowing all too well what he was about to witness. He grabbed Edwin’s arm. “You have to stop this! That man can’t bloody well fight right now, he’s a sitting duck!”

But Edwin was smirking – calm and wholly unaffected, as though he knew this event would end in some gross, mutilated death.

And then it dawned on Merlin that he  _ did _ .

“You!” Merlin accused, his face distorting in disgust. “You  _ knew _ this would happen! That – that people would die!”

Edwin shrugged, giving Merlin a lopsided, disfigured smile. “That’s the name of the game, Merlin. It involves magic, after all.”

Just then the audience gave a surmounted roar, ripping the pair back to the present.

“Bloody hell!” Merlin turned around, shoving Edwin away as he did so. He had meant to incant – he really did – but even as the beginning of the words left his lips the Wilddeoren was already upon the sorcerer.

But that was when time began to slow.

 

* * *

 

_ The first time Merlin’s magic had taken a life of its own – working upon its owner’s unspoken wants and emotions – Merlin and his mother had had to leave a week later. _

_ Will and Merlin had been young and stupid. Enticed by boredom, the pair had snuck out one evening to explore the Feldson Mansion - an abandoned building more liken to an ancient necropolis than a decrepit Victorian household. They’d snuck through the mass of decaying mortar and wood – the structure having dissolved and crumbled due to the moor’s dense atmosphere.  _

_ As it always was with the pair, sooner than later the act of exploring the ruin turned into a competition. Who could go further? How far could they climb? _

_ And of course, Will had to pick the exactly  _ wrong  _ bit of stairway to step onto, with the exactly perfect stretch of rotten banister that just so happened to crumble beneath Will’s palms even as the staircase collapsed beneath him. _

_ It was like through water, the scene that played out in front of Merlin. Will gasping, falling, the air pushed out of him by the sudden sensation of weightlessness.  _

_ Merlin’s only friend was falling to his undoubtable death. _

_ And that was when the emotions overtook him. Magic stopped the fall, time became a relative notion, and even as Merlin was just registering the burning in his irises, Will was already safely on the ground – laying three meters away from the rotten stairwell, even as the last of it crumbled.  _

_ There was a gaping hole, leading to the basement, where the stairs had once been. _

But even with the warping of time, Merlin was too late. The Wilddeoren was already upon his prey, who gave a sharp scream before gurgling, then falling abruptly silent. 

Merlin had to look away, bile threatening the back of his throat.

 

* * *

 

_ December 2017 _

 

_ Merlin snuggled deeper into the crook between Arthur’s arm and chest, enjoying the seemingly endless warmth the man exuded. Arthur merely responded by wrapping his arms around Merlin, drawing the younger man in even further into his embrace. _

_ With a sigh, Merlin closed his eyes, enjoying the way Arthur’s lips kept grazing the top of his head. It was meditative – grounding. He had been lost at sea for so long, torn between wrong and right and fate and the corner he’d been shoved into by birth that his future had dimmed to a point nearing no return. Yet now here was Arthur, here was somebody who was more, who could see Merlin as more… _

_ Arthur shifted a bit beneath him, then spoke, a soft, content murmur. _

_ “Do you ever think about leaving?” _

_ Merlin opened his eyes, watching as Arthur’s fingers traced delicate figures across his bare, goosefleshed arms. “Leaving?” _

_ Arthur hummed. “Mmm, yeah, leaving. Leaving this life, this country. Getting off the island.” The arms around Merlin tightened. Protective. “You ever think about leaving?” he repeated. _

_ Merlin paused for a minute, feeling his heart skip a beat. Nearly every day, he wanted to say. Always... If only the pieces had fallen differently. _

_ But instead, he just breathed out, nodding his head against Arthur’s chest. A hand moved up, lacing itself carefully –soothingly – through overgrown black hair. _

_ “Where would you go?” Arthur sounded distant. Like he was asking himself as much as Merlin. Maybe he was. _

_ “Mmm…” Merlin leaned into the delicate touch. It’d been a long time since anyone had bothered to touch him like that – with love, emotions, something more than cold lust or dark hatred. _

_ It was intoxicating. _

_ “I always thought it’d be nice to go to Brazil.” _

_ The fingers stopped, and Merlin could nearly feel Arthur’s eyes roll. “Of course, Brazil. I should’ve known,” he said, voice dry. _

_ Merlin frowned, though didn’t bother moving his head from its very comfortable place on Arthur’s chest. “What’s wrong with Brazil? Why – what would you choose?” _

_ Arthur pressed a kiss – or maybe just a sweeping touch – to Merlin’s head, muffling his voice. “Well, nothing’s wrong with Brazil,” he snorted. “I just would personally try America.” _

_ “America?” Their laws against sorcerers were nearly as bad as Albion’s. _

_ “I really did just say that, didn’t I?” Arthur said condescendingly, but with a smile in his voice. _

_ It was Merlin’s turn to snort, and this time he did look up, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of light blue eyes – pausing, not wanting to lose that skip of his heartbeat - then finally said, somewhat defiantly: _

_ “I might go to America, too. You never know.” _

_ “Oh, so now you’re going?” _

_ Merlin crinkled his nose at Arthur’s joking attitude. “Yeah, I mean, if I were to get away, I would very much want to go to more than just one place.” _

_ “Mmmm…” Arthur hummed his agreement into Merlin’s hair – a pastime he was apparently becoming increasingly fond of. _

_ Merlin smiled. Then, “Would you come to Brazil with me? In this hypothetical situation – of course.” _

_ “Of course,” Arthur agreed. “In this – hypothetical situation – I would follow you anywhere.” _

_ Merlin chuckled. _

_ Arthur stiffened. “What?” _

_ Merlin cracked a giant grin, feeling goofy and drunk on the smell of Arthur. “Oh, nothing.” _

_ “Merlin…” _

_ “Oh really, it isn’t much of anything…” Merlin paused. “You just have to admit you sounded quite a bit like a girl’s petticoat, right then.” _

_ “Merlin,” Arthur said, sounding thoroughly affronted, “I did not!” His hold tightened dangerously around Merlin. _

_ Merlin laughed louder, squirming. “Yes you did! Oh Arthur you definitely have a soft side to you!” _

_ Merlin could feel Arthur blushing, spreading from his face and neck all the way down to his chest. The warlock didn’t have much time to meditate on exactly how responsive Arthur had become around him, though, before he was being wrestled down. _

_ “No! No!” Merlin shouted between laughs – if he wasn’t mistaken he was about to be tickled to death, “Arthur have mercy!” Merlin writhed around on the couch, movie wholly forgotten, trying to block persistent hands, “I swear to god it was just an honest observation!” _

_ “Alright you little bastard, that’s enough out of you!” Arthur was smiling as he said it – making Merlin’s breath catch in his throat, a grin plastered on his face. _

_ And then he was being lifted up, slung over Arthur’s shoulder much to the warlock’s (loudly voiced) displeasure. “Gah! Arthur! I said I give up!” _

_ A hand was gripping a bit further up Merlin’s thigh than really was appropriate. “I know that, Merlin,” Arthur was speaking in a very prissy, smirking voice. “Now I get to claim my spoils.” _

_ And Merlin really couldn’t find it within himself disagree with that. _

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin didn’t even notice the biting cold – in stark contrast to the humid, stuffy environment of the basement – as he shoved his way through the door. He was too overwhelmed. The warlock needed to get out, get moving, get  _ gone _ . Merlin was stupid to have thought that Cenred would employ him to do anything less than  _ kill. _

_ So fucking stupid. _

Tears threatened the edge of Merlin’s vision even as he gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders. He would  not show weakness, not right now. After all, Edwin might just follow him. Or worse, Cenred’s men –

And sure enough, there was a shout. The warlock refused to turn to the sound of his name being called, though.

“Merlin!”

Evidently, Edwin was not one to be denied. Even as Merlin picked up his pace, the scarred sorcerer caught up with him, standing in his way.

Merlin’s face immediately closed off. “I have nothing to say to you.”

He then proceeded to shove his hands deeper into his pockets, moving to go around Edwin.

“Merlin, this is absurd.” The older man stepped in front of Merlin’s intended path. “You haven’t even heard me out - “

“And I don’t  _ plan _ to either,” Merlin growled, shoving past Edwin. “That was not what you told me it would be.”

Edwin scoffed, easily keeping pace with the warlock as they walked down the dimmed evening streets. “What do you mean? I told you perfectly clearly that Cenred wanted to test your magic.”

“You didn’t tell me what the test  _ was _ !”

Edwin choked a laugh, “Oh is that what’s bothering you? The little bit of violence?” The man once again got in front of the waiter, making the pair stop, else collide. He stooped closer, lowering his voice excitedly. “What does it matter if a few lowlife sorcerers die because of it? Merlin, you were brilliant at that, plus just look at the money –“ The man had brought out an envelope now, opening it to show the thick stack of twenties inside. Merlin shoved it out of his face, indignant.

“What the  _ fuck _ , Edwin?! They weren’t just a couple of lowlifes, and that sure as hell isn’t just a ‘little bit of violence’!” Merlin said, his voice rising as he imposed on the shorter man’s space. “I saw a man get fucking  _ eaten _ ! And what happened?! The crowd cheered! They bleeding  _ cheered _ !”

Merlin abruptly reined himself in, leaning back as his next words caught in his throat. His face closed off. 

“No. I don’t want anything to do with you, or King. And that’s final.”

Edwin barked a laugh, closing the envelope and tucking it into Merlin’s pocket even as the mage ground his teeth, standing rigidly still. “A bloody idiot is what you are. People  _ die _ , and you’re foolish to think that you’re any safer than the rest of them just because you duck your head and hide you magic.” At that, Edwin patted the newly-stuffed pocket, giving a smirk.

Merlin swallowed, his jaw tightening.

“A _bloody idiot_ I might be,” he said, his voice low and ominous, “but be best assured that this bloody idiot is more than capable of ridding this earth of _any_ bottom feeders, _yourself_ _included_. So I highly suggest you leave me to my head ducking and hiding before I _make_ you.”

With that, Merlin shoved past, fuming. He didn’t look back, and Edwin didn’t follow. It wasn’t until he had put twenty minutes of distance between him and Edwin that the warlock even began to regain a more modest pace.

 

* * *

  
  


October 25, 2016

 

_ The Lady’s Petticoat _ was the highly original name of the strip club that fronted Camelot’s most notorious (and  profitable) whorehouse. Though technically a part of Arthur’s job description, the heir tended to put the seedy establishment (and its seedier offshoots) on the back burner, due to the fact that more often than not,  _ The Lady’s Petticoat _ ran itself. Lamorak would swing by weekly to pick up rent and brew up some healthy fear, Uther would reap the profits, and Arthur would let the place, for the most part, be. Everything moved smoothly – a well-oiled cog in the iron-wrought machine that was the Pendragon Empire.

After all, everyone at  _ The Lady’s Petticoat _ at least had the decency to play nice.

That was, up until recently.

Recently… Something had been scaring the prostitutes. Though quitting was never in their job description (because for one reason or another they had found themselves with a debt to Camelot) many had recently, in fact, been doing just that.

Or, at least trying to.

Arthur frowned darkly at the reports he had gotten back from Lamorak. Camelot’s retaliation to the mass fleeing had been brutal… but necessary. And, it had done its job – that of squashing any rebellion – well. But in this sudden uprising’s wake, there were questions. Questions that were now Arthur’s responsibility to answer.

 

Lowlifes, destitution and cigarette smoke hung like a veil around the old building. Erected in the sixties and renovated in the nineties, the flat, squat strip club had an undisputable reputation. Even mid-afternoon – the time at which the tell-tale Pendragon Jaguar slid to a halt in front of its chipped and faded pink and black façade – loiterers stood out front, stubbing Pall Malls, shooting glances and flicking ash. Only at the sight of Arthur’s entourage did the building’s constant crowd disperse.

Ignoring a few sideways glances and outright glares, Arthur brushed invisible dust from his front, nodding silently to Lamorak, who had emerged from the driver’s side door.

“Sir,” the knight said, inclining his head to his leader. K and Percival similarly emerged from an altogether more intimidating unmarked SUV, moving to also give varying levels of acknowledgment to the young Pendragon.

Confidant, Arthur began to stride towards the entrance.

From the outside,  _ The Lady’s Petticoat  _ gave off a low hum of constant music. On the inside, the sound was nearly overwhelming. Taking a deep – and immediately regretted – breath of the building’s moldy, smoky, perfumed air, the heir silently followed as Lamorak lead the way to the basement. The air itself seemed to be crusted with sweat, sex and cheap perfume, while the whole establishment – bright pink and plastered – seemed to be crusted with decay.

Overall, it gave off quite the depressing appearance.

Nevertheless, even at the early hour, the counter to the bar was almost full, while there was scarcely a seat vacant around the stage.

Arthur and his men did not bother to stop when they got inside, though. Instead, the group moved towards the back room, even as the bartender took a second glance, turning a shocking shade of white.

K rammed into the door, slamming it open without warning, and with little resistance.

Inside, there was an elderly woman sitting behind a desk. Half a dozen expressions flashed across her face, the most dominant one fear. It churned Arthur’s stomach uncomfortably to see it there – to know that it was because of him that this woman fearful.

The Pendragon was quickly dragged from his uneasiness, though, at a new clamouring. Percival and Lamorak had already shoved their way into the back rooms, and were evidently disrupting the middle of the afternoon shift, if the screams and shouting was anything to go by.

Arthur, in the meantime, schooled his face to a mask of disgusted indifference. Lazily, he moved to sit on one of the chairs in the whorehouse’s ‘waiting room’, reclining as though he were a king - the worn chair his throne.

The woman, in the meantime, fidgeted, shooting nervous glances at the mobster in the room with her.

Arthur had to refrain from flinching at her hesitance.

Soon enough, though, Percival and Lamorak reappeared, about a dozen ‘workers’ in their wake, sporting various forms of undressedness. 

With a couple stern looks and gun-gestures from the knights, the employees of  _ The Petticoat  _ were lined up against the wall.

Not a moment later, K came bursting into the room, Alvarr, head of  _ The Petticoat _ , caught tightly in his grasp.

The man in question paled at the sight of Arthur.

The room was tense, impossibly so. No one dared speak; not when Arthur was there, staring about with indifference and an air of dangerous calm. 

In the corner, one of the prostitutes was crying, another offering soft, muffled comfort.

“Bring him here.” Even with the muted music from the strip club breaking the silence, Arthur’s voice easily cut through the room.

K complied, dragging Alvarr across the room, shoving him to his knees in front of Arthur. The man flinched, but otherwise didn’t break eye contact with the Pendragon. Arthur gave a small, private smile at that. It always was interesting to be defied.

Interesting, but not solving any problems. So, the mobster shook himself from his thoughts, leaning forward in his chair, pressing the palms of his hands together.

“Alvarr, is it?” He didn’t wait for the man to answer, instead continuing, his voice calm, soft… deadly. “Lamorak tells me things have been happening here… Things that the workers don’t like. That the clients don’t like.”

He paused, for effect, his eyes roaming around the room before finally settling once again on the man before him. “Care to explain?”

Alvarr visibly swallowed at this, licking dry lips. “I – I don’t know what your guy is talking about – the ladies love it here – “ He was cut off with a slap to the side of the head, courtesy of K, who still had a death grip on the man. Arthur leaned back, raising a lazy finger:  _ that’s enough for now. _

K nodded, understanding.

“Well? Ladies?” Arthur stood up, going over to where the women were huddled against the far wall. “Is this true?”

None of them made eye contact; none of them wanted to be the subject of the Pendragon’s steely gaze.

Arthur sighed dramatically; about to spout some new threat, but then the woman who had been cry stepped forward, shakily.

“S – sir…” She said, her voice soft and wobbly, snot and tears and whorish lipstick smeared across her face.

Arthur raised a brow at her, making the woman flinch. Nevertheless, she continued, gaining strength as she spoke.

“We’ve been… We’ve had to – to help w-with  _ things _ . Things that aren’t nothing a t-tute would wanna do, y’know? Things that aren’t j-just fuckin’.” She swallowed, and Alvarr made a noise of protest behind Arthur. “We been gettin’ information… doing things we don’t wanna, that ain’t complying with our contracts with Camelot, you hear?”

Oh, Arthur heard. He nodded curtly to the woman, who stepped back, finally seemingly aware of the mess on her face, rubbing at the snot and dried tears.

When the Pendragon turned around, it was to find Alvarr white as a sheet. Good. He should be.

After all, this stupid, stupid pimp had actually tried to use Camelot to his own means. Had tried to abuse the power given him by Uther.

“Well this is interesting,” Arthur murmured. The room stayed silent, even as Arthur ushered for a knight. 

His phone was pressed into his palm a moment later.

Arthur sent his father a quick text, explaining the situation, then proceeded to get comfortable, despite the painful quiet of the room.

A moment later, and he received a response.  And paused.

An odd chill griped his spine at the sight of the text message, straight from Uther himself, spelling out the simple, damning command:

_ Camelot has been compromised. Terminate operation, no evidence. _

Arthur swallowed the lump forming in his throat, thumbing out of the message screen before turning around to face his men. With a slight nod of his head, the young Pendragon conveyed the message to them – much to the confusion and chagrin of the other inhabitants of the backroom.

It became clear enough to them, though, as guns began to emerge from folds of clothing, safeties clicking off.

Arthur didn’t wait to watch the massacre that was soon to come.

  
  


That night, Arthur Pendragon did not oversee his men’s training at the Armory. Nor did he make one of his now-customary visits to Dragonhouse.

No, the heir was in a black mood, his emotions an unidentifiable tangle, and Arthur did the only thing he knew  _ how _ to do when in such a state: he got smashingly  _ drunk _ .

 

* * *

 

October 26, 2016

 

The next day found Arthur all but crawling out of bed, expected to make an appearance and formal report to his father about last night’s situation.

As Arthur was being ushered into Uther’s office, the young Pendragon had the dawning realization that he  _ was still drunk _ .

No surprise considering how Pendragons (indeed, people just generally in Arthur’s line of work) had a tendency towards a dangerously high level of alcohol tolerance. And furthermore, the young heir had pushed the limits of said tolerance the previous night.

As it was, though, Arthur was still drunk. Drunk and mellowed and still disturbed by the events of the night previous (even though he would never consciously acknowledge the slaughter of innocents as being the cause of his foul mood – it wasn’t proper in his line of work). The younger Pendragon took a seat across from Uther, and promptly zoned out.

That was, right until Uther uttered the phrase: “- meeting with Rodor and Mithian for lunch next week.”

That caught Arthur off guard.  _ Lunch _ ? “Pardon?”

Uther blinked at the sudden interruption, making Arthur teeter for a moment before stuttering out a more coherent, appropriate question:

“And- er- what is the purpose of such a meeting?”

“Why – marriage, of course,” Uther said, snorting and back down at the sheets of business readouts in front of him.

“…Marriage?” And suddenly Arthur was feeling much too sober in too short a time, what with the way his blood was rushing in his ears. He’d thought – he’d thought he had more time –

“Yes,  _ marriage _ ,” Uther said, irritation lacing his voice – as though he were indulging in explaining something to a simpleton. “It’s about time we had another heir to Camelot, and the political ties of a union between Camelot and Nemeth would be immensely beneficial – for both parties.”

And that was when last night’s binge drinking decided to speak up. Arthur’s mouth opened upon its own accord, and the words were leaving it before the young heir had even realized what he was saying. “I don’t want to dine with Rodor and Mithian.”

Uther paused at this. Dangerous in his total calmness.

“Excuse me?” It was quiet. Loaded through its sheer lack of emotion.

Arthur swallowed, keeping his face calm. If it was one thing the heir knew about interacting with his father, it was that once you spoke, you better stand by your word.

“I said…” Arthur steadied himself. “I do not wish to dine with Rodor, nor Mithian.”

Uther still wasn’t looking at Arthur – paused in his surprise and undoubted rage.

“And why in the  _ hell _ do you think you have a  _ right _ to deny your responsibilities?” Uther looked up then, his anger evident by his pinkish face. After all, it wasn’t everyday that Arthur stood up against his rule. “Why in the  _ hell _ do you think you have a right to deny a perfect marriage?” And now he was getting mad, his voice raising. “I have not just chosen any old  _ whore _ off the street for you to court!”

And that was when it happened. One of Arthur’s most spectacular, stirringly  _ stupid _ moments.

If there wasn’t still alcohol rushing through the young Pendragon’s veins, then maybe it could have been avoided. Arthur could’ve kept his deepest, darkest secret tucked away, kept sedated and dormant through the rest of his life until his inevitable, miserable death. Or at least until Uther died. Either way, it could’ve been kept  _ safe _ .

But as it was, Arthur was undoubtedly still buzzed, and therefore not thinking before he spoke, and  _ therefore _ let the next sentence escape from his mouth, slippery and disgusting and wrong even as is snuck through – snapping his teeth shut just a moment too late.

“Because I don’t  _ want _ a  _ wife _ !”

The room went deathly silent. Uther didn’t look up from his work for the longest moment – though Arthur could nevertheless feel all the blood draining from his persons.

The moment stretched on, and a vein – faint, pale and green – popped in the older man’s neck.

“What did you just say?” It was said so calmly. So terrifyingly calmly. Vaguely, Arthur felt a trap snap shut, the overwhelming image of a predator descending on its prey playing through his mind. 

Arthur straightened up a bit, jutting back his shoulders. No use turning back now, or backtracking his statement. Uther was old, not stupid. “I – I said that I do not want a… wife.”

“A partner. I want a  _ partner _ , father,” Arthur said, speaking louder and making eye contact with his father for the first time since his most erroneous misspeak.

“By  _ god _ , Arthur, you better mean a  _ business _ partner –“

“I mean a husband.” And there it was, Arthur’s darkest secret – deepest want and need. The painful truth, the singular fact that would spell his demise, would prove him to be a lesser man, a lesser leader than his father. There it was, all spread out for the world – for  _ Uther,  _ gods  _ – Uther! _ – to see. And Arthur couldn’t help, even as he admitted his largest shortcoming, but jut out his chin and raise his head and speak levelly and clearly – as he’d been taught all his life.

And Uther could only sit there and stare at his son.

Finally: “This better be a fucking joke.”

“No,” Arthur clutched his hands into tight fists, his tongue feeling like lead. “Sir.”

“No,  _ Arthur _ , it  _ is _ . And it better stay between us, because I will have no son of mine sodomizing like a fucking  _ animal _ ,” Uther corrected, a dangerous glint reflecting in his eyes. A wild thing – the same look he tended to get when sorcery was mentioned. “You are lucky you are my son and that I need an heir to my empire, else you would not experience such leniency. But if I ever hear of this absurdity coming from you again _ , I will act upon it. _

“Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

Arthur was sober enough, at least, to leave swiftly and without another word.

Though really, there wasn't much of anything he could say to make things worse at this point. 

 

* * *

 

_ March 2018 _

_ The road trip to the sea was Arthur’s idea. _

_ Merlin had never thought Arthur to be much of a romantic, nor prone to idle idolization – but of course, the young man was never fully unraveled to Merlin, not really. He was a mystery, a maze, an endless puzzle whose pieces are scattered across the room. As soon as one facet is peeled away, another comes to fill its place – like liquid mercury filling the crevices of a container: cold, metallic, unnatural even in its purest nature. _

_ But could Arthur really be pure? Though he was just a businessman, there was something in his eyes, his carefully schooled expression, that told of knowledge and grief and something else beyond a normal human’s capacity. Maybe it was in the rigid schooling of his youth, the undoubtedly revolving door of nannies and nurses, that left Arthur so riddled and  _ heavy _. _

_ Not heavy like fat (though Merlin told the older man more than enough of such jokes). No, Arthur carried a weight about him – latched onto straightened backs and white-knuckled grips – that told of something beyond matter. The weight of responsibility, sure. Such expectations as Arthur undoubtedly was held to could easily break a weaker man. But even then, responsibility could only pressure so much. _

_ No, Arthur was something more – he held something heftier. A type of weight that dragged on limbs, making them weak and decrepit. A weight that picked at the edges, pulling away chucks and scraps and unimportant bits until there was little to naught remaining of a person, the hollow shell left to fill with sand and grit and pain and, with time, self loathing and inevitable destruction – because it’s so damn heavy, so damn overwhelming, yet at the same time you’re light as air and looking perfectly fine because you're a shell – a damn shell – _

_ But at the same time immeasurably heavy. _

_ And gods, Merlin knew that weight. He could recognize such heft in another, could see the edges wilted and picked at. _

_ Yet there was nothing he could do, because that weight was the weight of  _ secrets _. The weight of hiding and lying. _

_ And gods knew he had enough of his own. They picked at the warlock incessantly, tearing down every wall he’d ever built. He couldn’t handle anymore – gods knew he couldn’t. So instead Merlin let Arthur keep his secrets, and hoped his lover would leave him be in kind. _

_ So instead of speaking, of splitting the silence of the car even as the pair drove towards a sliver of greying water in the distance that never seemed to near, Merlin interlaced his and Arthur’s fingers. _

_ Someday they would both know. The weight would be equally distributed and maybe they could get along in life, not having to worry about the edges, or the fatigue. _

_ But not now, not today. The time wasn’t right. _

_ The time wasn’t right. _

_ So instead, they silently drove towards the sea. _

 

* * *

 

October 28, 2016

  
  


When Arthur stumbled into Dragonhouse at eight pm, the beginning of Merlin's shift, the waiter immediately knew there was something wrong. 

First off, Arthur never  _ stumbled _ .

Now, Merlin had suspected for a long time that there was probably some form of capability - underneath Arthur's solid businessman exterior - for Arthur to have such a human quirk as the ability to  _ stumble _ . Yet even if that were the case, such a capability would never rear its ugly,  _ plebeian _ head out in public.

Secondly, Arthur just so happened to (stumble) up to the counter with a (mostly consumed) bottle of fine gin, swaying a bit.

Merlin, using all the intelligence and wit that the ancients of the old religion had bestowed upon him, deduced that Arthur was probably (if not wholly)  _ drunk _ .

When the usually clean cut, never-a-hair-out-of-line man slapped a twenty on the counter demanding his "finest brandy" and giggled when he managed to overturn two stools in the process, Merlin knew Arthur was, indeed, under the influence. 

And furthermore, so did the rest of the diner.

Arthur, with his tie hanging loosely around his neck and first three buttons undone, stumbling around like a drunken fool (which really wasn't far from the mark) was drawing quite frankly unwanted attention.

Merlin walked up to the counter, watching as Arthur giggled into another sip of ancient gin.

"Mhm!  _ Mer _ lin," Arthur drew out the waiter's name with a delighted grin. "Merlin, mate, I want some pie." To the warlock's surprise, the older man's normally posh, businessy accent was dropped in his current inebriated state.

Merlin stared at the sight (who was now settled somewhat precariously upon a stool) before him. Really, some dots just weren't connecting within the warlock's head.

"Well?" Arthur reached across the counter to unceremoniously poke Merlin in the cheek. Merlin scowled, brushing the affronting digit away. "What are you  _ waiting _ for! Get me some pie!"

Arthur started giggling again, throwing both hands (expensive gin bottle and all) up into the air. "Ahaha, get it Merlin? Waiting! You're a  _ wait _ er!"

Merlin could've stayed there, behind the bar, and observe the absolutely alien display of an Arthur minus the stick up his arse. But quite frankly, it didn't take a genius to notice that the drunken businessman was drawing unwanted attention from everyone within the diner, now.

Contrary to popular belief, Dragonhouse's 8 pm crowd was rougher (and more likely to mug drunken,  _ idiotic _ businessmen) than the 3 am one.

Merlin made a decision.

"Here, Arthur," the warlock put the rag he had been wiping the counter with down. "How about we get you that pie, right back here..."

Merlin walked around the counter, to a strangely grinning Arthur.

"Mmm, wait. What flavour is the pie?" Arthur quirked an eyebrow in a manner that Merlin could only call  _ playful _ .

"Ummm...." Merlin was busy pulling the drunken bag of rocks (really, how could Arthur be so  _ heavy _ ? Oh gods, it was all those toned… taut… muscles...) up off the stool. "A bunch. You can pick whatever you want."

"Mmm, I want...  _ Merlin _ flavoured."

The sheer shock of the realization that not only was Arthur able to flirt, but also doing it towards Merlin, was only drowned out by how painfully obvious it was that the pair had become quite the spectacle. The warlock's cheeks burned.

"Um. Yeah, sorry mate, but that's not an option."

At this, Arthur actually pouted.

Merlin had to suppress a groan. Instead, his full attention went towards lugging Arthur behind the counter and towards the back room.

"Well," the drunken prat drawled, " _ shite _ ."

"C’mon, Arthur, don't be such a dollophead," Merlin grunted out, puffing with the exertion of lugging a man that was surely all muscle. "Use your damn legs."

Arthur, of course, wasn't paying the least bit attention to the man who he was currently crushing. Instead, his pout suddenly turned into a grin. "Oh,  _ Mer _ lin, you want to get away from the crowd, don't you?" The grin grew.

Merlin didn't even  _ know  _ his ears could burn. They were nearly in the backroom by now, but Arthur really wasn't making it easy.

"Oi! Give it up, mates, I'm getting a private pie tonight!" Arthur had somehow struggled out of Merlin's grasp, and was raising his gin bottle to the somewhat amused diner patrons. At least the tense atmosphere was diffusing.

"Arthur! Shut up, you bloody prat!" Merlin slapped the back of the older man's head, getting a chuckle from the crowd.

"Don't  _ worry _ ,  _ Mer _ lin, there's  _ more _ than enough time for pie." The drunken man winked at the rest of the diner, putting on quite the show.

"Oh my god... I'm going to kill you..." Merlin muttered, finally dragging Arthur into the backroom. 

Merlin’s whole face, according to the small, chipped mirror in the corner, was tomato red.

Arthur frowned at the waiter’s words. "Well, that's not very nice..."

Merlin rolled his eyes, shoving Arthur down onto the room's small cot. Arthur smiled up at the warlock… expectantly.

"...Hell no."

Arthur hummed, raising his eyebrows.

"Alright, that's it." Merlin grabbed (with the help of a little bit of magic, because  _ damn _ did Arthur have a grip!) the gin bottle. "You're done."

Arthur made a whining sound that at any other point in time Merlin would've laughed his ass off at. But right now, the warlock was too dazed. He glanced at the bottle, then unceremoniously threw it into the trash can - breaking it.

Arthur made an affronted sound. "Oi! That was expensive!"

"Mm, I know it was," Merlin said, smirking a bit.

Arthur pouted.

Cautiously, Merlin moved towards where the older man was slumped. With the stark efficiency of a physician's assistant, he undid Arthur's tie.

"Mmm, is this the part where I get my pie?" Arthur murmured, eyes closed.

Merlin snorted, unbuttoning Arthur's button down and revealing a white undershirt. "If by pie, you mean the sugary dessert, then sure. I'll go grab you some. But if you think you're getting laid, then I'll have to politely remind you to  _ piss off." _

Arthur pouted further, letting himself be stripped of his outer shirt. Merlin rolled his eyes, shoving the man back onto the cot.

"Lay down for a bit. Sleep it off, and I'll get you some pie in a while."

Arthur groaned, shoving his face into his hands, never mind that he was laying on his back. "I can't! The room won't stop spinning!"

_ Of course it won’t." _ Well, maybe you should've thought about that before you decided to drink the equivalent of a liquor store!" Merlin wrinkled his nose, because really, they  _ both  _ smelled like a bar right now.

Arthur just groaned and squirmed in response, face still lodged in his hands.

Merlin took this distraction as his cue to leave.

Twenty minutes and more than a couple smirking customers later, Merlin found himself - plate of cherry pie in hand - entering the backroom again. Arthur, the poor sod, was still on his back, fingers pressing into his eyelids.

Wordlessly, Merlin scooted the first aid box aside, clearing room on the side table for the notorious pie. The warlock noted that Arthur had managed to kick off part of one expensive shoe.

Sighing, Merlin scooted it the rest of the way off then untied the other one.

"You know, I don't want to do this."

Merlin frowned, looking up to meet two surprisingly clear, blue eyes. He could get lost in them, the waiter realized with a start.

Arthur took the eye contact as a cue to continue, struggling to sit up. "Father, he wants me to inherit everything. The business." Arthur frowned. "I never liked it much. Sure, I'm good at it, but I don't  _ like _ it."

Arthur got an icky look on his face. Upon closer inspection, those clear blue eyes were actually tainted and dazed with drink. "I don't like hurting people."

Merlin swallowed, not really sure he was supposed to be hearing this. Not really sure he  _ understood  _ this. Arthur's shoe was forgotten in his hands.

Arthur looked up at Merlin, smiling then. "I like you." The abrupt change of topic startled the warlock back into motion. He put the shoe on the floor.

"Yeah?"

"Yup." Arthur popped the 'p'. "You know what you're doing." Arthur deflated a bit. "And you are nice. Don't have to be mean... Or rude... Snobby.." He made another comical face. Merlin smiled endearingly at Arthur.

"I'm not as put together as you might think."

Arthur was having none of that. "No, no. Maybe not. But being a waiter, you have so little to.. Worry about."

Merlin frowned, less endeared.

Arthur continued. "I wish I could be a simpleton like yourself, sometimes. Not having to worry about anything besides for... pie... and… coffee." Arthur nodded his head to himself, as though his explanation were wholly reasonable.

"I - excuse you, I am  _ not _ a simpleton!" Merlin sputtered, considering dumping said pie on the prat.

Arthur merely made a skeptical noise. Merlin rolled his eyes and huffed.

“Look, prat, here’s your pie.” The plate was quickly shoved under the still drunk businessman’s nose. Then, not particularly wanting to stand around like a fool, the waiter retreated, leaving Arthur to figure out how to eat.

In the morning, he would have some explaining to do.   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I will try to post once a week for the next 9 weeks, though no promises!


End file.
